


A Pack of Truth

by whatswiththemustache



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Blackmail, Gen, Karen Finds Out, Matt is framed, Multi, Reveal, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-05-19 04:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5953444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatswiththemustache/pseuds/whatswiththemustache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Season 1. Sometimes it really is easier dealing with the lies, ignoring and accepting them rather than dealing with the undeniable truth. All they do is give her a folder, a thick manila filled with too many crucial bits of information, labelled "Mathew Murdock". What she does with it is completely up to her…as for Karen, however, she is completely lost. This is the story of how Karen finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between seasons 1 and 2.

"Guys," Karen calls out as she shrugs into her heavy overcoat, craning her neck at an awkward angle. She shuffles her shoulders to get the sleeves to straighten out, turning to snatch up her purse. "I'm heading out. You'll have to close up."

Her voice still echoes through the room freshly, like it is still brand-new. Still too empty – and yet, it would always feel like home. From the adjacent room, she hears Matt and Foggy's usual mummer of conversation stop.

"Already?" Foggy's incredulous voice calls. "It's only, like…it's four o'clock. Karen, it's four. Are you dabbling or what?" His voice grows louder throughout, until Foggy's rotund silhouette appears in the doorway. Karen tilts her head, smiling in badly suppressed amusement as Foggy puts on a shocked expression, spreading his hands.

"What gives?" He says, tilting back his head in the signature Foggy way. "Matt, our beloved secretary is jumping ship." He turns, calling the words over his shoulder for effect. Karen stifles a laugh before straightening, placing her hands on her hips as she sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes.

"Busted!" announces Karen, shaking her head mockingly. "Didn't even make it out the door."

Foggy laughs along, shaking his head, before folding his arms and giving her a stern look. "Okay, but seriously. Where're you going?" He's still smiling, but Karen can see the underlying concern. Matt slips into view from over Foggy's shoulder, his roughly shaven face arranged in a politely concerned frown behind his darkened glasses – he rocks slightly on his feet, though, in a way that Karen knows is slightly hesitant. Both obviously concerned, worried for her, and yet unsure if they should show it or not. Karen isn't sure if she is happy or annoyed by it. It's been a while since the last attempt on her life was made – that they know of – and yet, they still practically walk her home every night.

It was nice, she has to admit. And yet…it also makes it harder to forget.

Karen sighs heavily, smiling warmly at the two lawyers. "Somewhere terrible enough to rival your worst nightmares," she says sarcastically, stepping around her desk to stand before Matt and Foggy. Foggy raises his eyebrows while Matt's frown just deepens, and Karen's smile widens affectionately.

"Dentist," she admits after a beat, ducking her head and making a face. "It's been a life-long fear."

Foggy lets out a bark of a laugh, shifting his weight in a way that is obviously relaxed. Matt does too, in his own way; he leans back, clasping his hands together and tilting his head back with a faint smile. _Stand down_. It still gives Karen a glow in her chest, despite seeming a little overbearing as well. _Nelson & Murdock – nothing if not protective of their own._

"Ah, well," Matt says quietly into the short lull that follows. "I suppose we can't fault you for wanting to keep those pearly whites nice and shiny."

Karen laughs, shoulders caving inwards as she tilts her head inquisitively. "Matt – you wouldn't know if I did have pearly whites or not." Sometimes it still bothers her to tease a blind man, but after practically living with Matt and Foggy for so long, she's getting used to it.

Matt scoffs in his quiet way, ducking his head for a moment to take the hit. "Well, I can still take an educated guess," he replies. "Foggy?"

Foggy's grin widens as he rolls back on his heels, sticking his thumbs into his pockets boastfully. "She's got pearly whites." He confirms with a smirk.

Matt nods, lifting his chin. "There you are."

Karen raises an eyebrow skeptically, shifting her weight. "I'm not sure if that counts," she says pointedly. "But hey, A-plus for teamwork."

Matt and Foggy smile appreciatively, seeming to back away slightly. Foggy sniffs, leaving the topic behind, and brightly broaches a new one. "What time's your appointment?"

Karen grimaces again, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder. "Four-thirty, and I still have to get there." She sighs again, not looking forward to the hurried walk, and wonders if she could spare the money for a taxi.

"Okay, get going," says Foggy, jerking his head towards the door. "Just make sure don't run over any old ladies on your rush over there. There are only so many things we can talk out way out of. On the other hand – if those evil dentists give you any trouble, we can sure take care of them." He smiles amiably, and Matt laughs quietly in a skeptical way.

"Never underestimate the power of Nelson & Murdock!" Foggy mock-shouts loudly, raising a fist to the ceiling. "Plus one!"

Karen rolls her eyes and lifts a hand in farewell, starting for the door. "Your plus-one will see you tomorrow," she replies, still smiling as her heels click-clack against the hollow-sounding floor on her way out. She pulls the door shut to the sound of Foggy energetically trying to sell some new, wild scheme to Matt, who is undoubtedly shooting down each of Foggy's shticks with articulately precise contradictions. It's moments like this – when she's just half-way in, half-way out, of the world of Nelson & Murdock – that she most appreciates them, and when she can best see just how badly her life would suck without them. Besides Matt and Foggy, she has literally no one. But, those two can easily make up for whatever she lacks.

She stands outside the door for a moment, smiling softly at the door and the polished, brand-new sign on the wall beside it, before turning and making her way down the stairs and out onto the street. She's walking along absent-mindedly, thinking about her friends and occasionally glancing around for a cab, when a sleek black vehicle with opaque windows pulls up along the curb beside her, slowing to match her pace.

That's when things start to go wrong.

* * *

Karen involuntarily slows – she knows, subconsciously, that she really shouldn't, but curiosity gets the better of her. The traffic on the rest of the street is moving steadily, and there's absolutely no one else walking on the sidewalk besides her, so she knows that the car can't be slowing by chance. And then she's meandered to a halt, frowning curiously at the black car, and the passenger-side door snaps open to let out a rather stern-looking man in a sharp suit and overly-polished shoes. And then she's just thinking, _shit, I'm an idiot._

"Miss Page?" The man asks in a clipped voice – it's obviously less a question than an acknowledgement, simply calling her in. He stands straight, folding his hands and tilting his head in a way that reminds her chillingly of the man she'd shot. The connection, made in a flash and just as soon buried, leaves her standing frozen, staring at the man with unconcealed horror.

"If you'd be so kind," the man says quietly, raising his eyebrows imploringly. "My employer would like a word."

That word – _employer_ – Karen gulps, suddenly feeling her hands shaking, knees weak. Heat floods her balking body as she takes a stumbling step back, heart pounding in her throat. "I – no, I –" She stutters and falls silent, trying to ignore the rushing in her ears. _Not again, not again._ It's an entirely different situation from then, but the feeling of panic is the same. She can still feel the haze of drugs making everything seem blurred and out of focus, and still remember how each word that he'd said make some of the haze go away. She can still feel the weight of the gun in her hand, the weight of that moment before she'd fired. And she can still hear the sharp sound of his phone's ringtone – _be-e-e-e-e, be-e-e-e-e, be-e-e-e-e_ – always, constantly, forever tinkling infuriatingly at the back of her mind.

Now, it's just the hum of the city, seeming more distant, and her heartbeat pounding loudly as she stares at this man, standing as if bored beside the black car. He shifts, almost sighing in impatience. "No need to be alarmed," he says. "He'd just like to speak with you. Believe me - I think that you'd prefer cooperation to the alternative. Most do."

His eyes shift to the left deliberately – Karen follows the movement, turning to look down the sidewalk, and her gaze immediately snaps onto the silhouette of a black-suited man standing motionlessly at the end of the block, hands clasped as he sends a measured glance in their direction. Karen's heart leaps into her throat as she whips around, looking to her right – there's another man stationed there, hands deep in his pockets as he stands like a bouncer at the entrance to a private party.

Her breath catches, and she can feel the blood drain from her face – she can't breathe past the pressure building on her chest. The man standing before her gives a tiny hint of a smile, gesturing towards the car with one hand.

Karen presses her lips together tightly, clenching her fists, and fervently hopes that she doesn't pass out from lack of oxygen as her chest seems to continue to constrict. The man from the car pulls open the door to the back seat, revealing a dark interior and the shadowy shape of someone sitting on the far side.

She glances to both sides again, but the sight hasn't improved – the sight of the dark-suited figures brings on a swell of nausea. Her frantic imagination conjures a series of different scenarios – she could run, it would only take a second for her to dart to one of the locked doors along the street, but surely they've already thought of that – and yet, every idea that seems even remotely promising ends with hands like iron, clasped around her neck as they force a reeking cloth to her mouth. It could stop her heart. _I can't do that._

At the back of her mind, she knows that she should try. It's a weak thing to do – simply follow this man's orders, as if he were superior – and yet, for once she doesn't care. She's never been one to opt for the easy way – and yet _. I can't go through that again_.

Gulping heavily, she steps forward and brushes past the man in the suit, folding herself into the car with stiff limbs. The second she pulls her legs over the threshold, the door slams shut and the car is whirring smoothly away to the beat of her thundering heart.

* * *

Inside the significantly darker interior, the world is quiet and filled with a constant hum; Karen feels like her ragged breaths and deafening heartbeat are somehow intruding upon it. The panic rips through her like a wave, though, and suddenly it's anger, and she doesn't care.

During that moment of quiet as she tries to get her bearings, there's the shifting sound of fabric moving across fabric, and she whips her head to her left, hair swinging in an arc, just as a voice interrupts the hum.

"Miss Page, I presume?" The man sitting beside her is in another suit, of course – as immaculate and pristine as the others – he sits with his legs crossed, hands folded in a way that is perhaps slightly relaxed, but not at all comforting. His face is almost hidden by the shadows, but she can see enough – a neat, close-cropped hairstyle, a clean-shaven face, a strong jaw and arched eyebrows. "Ah – thank you, for not making this too difficult. That is always irritating, when people refuse to cooperate with us."

Karen licks her lips slowly, feeling almost numb. "Who's 'us'?" Her whisper sounds rusty and abused – she coughs slightly, clearing her throat and raising her voice fractionally. "Who – what do you want from me?"

Her voice audibly wavers – she'd feel almost ashamed, if not for the sensation of being slowly suffocated. But she's been in too many situations like this – why was it always her, her small insignificant self, that ended up here? That attracted or sought out trouble like a month in search of a flame?

The man slowly blinks, his eyes trained raptly on her, and she sniffs, breath fluttering.

"I would like," the man says deliberately, deceptively calm and civilized. "to _talk_ with you, if you'd be so kind. Please believe me when I say that we don't mean you any harm at all. In fact, I think you'll thank us, when all is said and done."

Karen somehow snorts, almost choking on the humorless laugh. "Right," she says breathlessly, feeling her lip shaking - she fleetingly worries that she'll bite her tongue, and presses her lips together momentarily. "Like I haven't heard that before."

The man doesn't reply – just raises an eyebrow, gazing steadily at her. Her breath huffs unsteadily for a long moment, before she swallows, suddenly desperate to break that uncertain silence.

"You know –" Karen says in that harsh whisper that she can't seem to get away from. "Most people, when they're forced into a strange black car by men in suits – they assume that the suits _do_ kind of want to hurt them, one way or another." Her attempted sarcasm falls flat with her shaking voice, but the man still gives a quiet, polite huff of a laugh.

"Well, I can assure you that we'd only like to protect you – you and this city both." He holds her gaze for a long second. "And I apologize that you feel like you've been forced into anything. That's not at all my intention. You're not being held here against your will – in fact, you can leave any time you like."

Karen stares, frozen for a moment – she then tilts her head into an indulging smile, letting her eyes flit to the dark window through which she can easily see the cityscape speeding by. The panic is far from faded, still rendering her numb – she almost wants to laugh, so she knows she's close to hysteria. "Uh-huh," says Karen, trying for something scathing – she probably just sounds out of breath. "Any time I want. Through a locked door, straight into the middle of traffic."

The man sits still for a moment. Then he quietly lifts a hand to a small, inconspicuous keypad adhered to the panel of the door on his side – there's the dull tap of a button being pressed, while almost simultaneously the car gives off a quiet _beep_.

Karen turns her head fractionally to the right – the door is unlocked.

"As I say," says the man quietly, settling back into his seat. "You're free to go. We'll pull over, if you like. But I think you'd benefit from hearing me out first."

Her heart is pounding heavily again. She's trying not to be too obvious about turning towards the car door – calculating how quickly she can shove it open and if it would be safe or not for her to jump out – but he keeps talking.

"Of course, I know that you're probably not too much of an ambitious person, at least when it comes to your personal success. But I also know that you're a very loyal person. Very attached to friends and even employers, especially when they come hand in hand…well, that's why I think you might like to stay."

The silence that follows is so thick she can taste it – sharp and heavy, with too many possible routes leading away. She freezes, her hand halfway to the handle of the door – again she turns her head sharply, hair whipping out, to meet the man's calm gaze with a defensive glare. "What?"

"To be more precisely put," he says slowly, reaching down into the depths of a briefcase that she hadn't noticed had been sitting at his feet. "I'd like to share some information with you. It concerns the firm you work for."

Karen blinks, frowning skeptically. "What? But that's – their business is brand _new_. There's no _information_ to be had on them." Some part of her mind is screaming for her to stop falling into this obvious trap, but she can't listen – not while Matt and Foggy might somehow, someway, be in danger because of this. Because of her.

The man smiles in a privileged way, raising his eyebrows. "That's the wonderful thing about _information_ ," he says slowly, as if tasting the words. "There's always more to be had." And with a flourish, he hands her a sleek manila folder that's laden with unexpected weight and labeled boldly with a name – Matthew Murdock.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

_The man smiles in a privileged way, raising his eyebrows. "That's the wonderful thing about information," he says slowly, as if tasting the words. "There's always more to be had." And with a flourish, he hands her a sleek manila folder that's laden with unexpected weight and labeled boldly with a name – Matthew Murdock._

She's forgotten to be terrified, forgotten that she should be attempting to leap out into busy intersections. Her heart still thunders, but almost mutely in the roar of her thoughts; her hands shake, but she forces her trembling fingers to clutch the folder tightly.

She's already past the hushed whisper of a question, aimed at the air – _what is this? what the hell_ – he never answered anyway.

Pictures. Newspaper clips, printouts from news blogs. Reports, records, comparisons and accounts –

Karen finally has to jerk her head forcibly up, tearing her eyes away from the endless flow of words and images on those pages. All concerning more of Matt and the masked vigilante – 'Daredevil', they said – than she'd ever thought could possibly be even grouped into even remotely the same category of discussion–

She rips her thoughts away, a hysterical laugh threatening to rise up in her throat. "This," she chokes out, gasping silently. "This is – what the _fuck_. Do you even – what the _hell_ is this supposed to be?"

The man shifts, his arms still folded neatly in a way that suddenly infuriates her. "I think there's enough evidence inside that folder to make it more than obvious, Miss Page."

Karen stares incredulously, breaths ragged. " _Evidence_? This is just – this is _ridiculous_. Do you even –" she swallows as a chill randomly sweeps through her, sending goose bumps down her arms. "You do realize he's _blind_ , don't you? How could you even – this is insane."

"If you'll continue reading, you'll see that there are multiple groups of skilled individuals who make use of the heightened senses that those who are blind have the opportunity to acquire," says the man slowly – as if it were all obvious, plainly black and white. She almost wants to laugh, if only she wasn't so sure that any show of humor would be immediately followed by another precise remark by this man, too sharp and factual to dismiss.

"Of course, that's not necessarily relevant. Farther into the file, you'll find that we've put together biological samples collected from several different sites of the Daredevil's work, and have successfully matched those samples to one identity – Mathew Murdock. That, in combination with the rest of the information we've put together, should convince you…"

Karen swallows again, her lips dry against a sandpaper tongue; she clenches her jaw, slowly looking back to the open folder on her lap. It's impossible. She wants to laugh and just say it. She would, except for the dawning horror in the pit of her stomach.

It gives her the feeling that this is not a laughing matter.

* * *

She doesn't believe it. Karen lets her thoughts dwell on that decision for a long moment, absorbing it. Believing it.

There's no way that Matt is Daredevil. She just needs to get out of there, out of the company of this crackpot who pegs blind guys for nighttime vigilantes – she takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the stupid facts calling for her attention from the pages.

"Why am I here?" Her voice is surprisingly calm, now – or at least, calmer. There's hardly a quiver.

The man sitting beside her makes a sound like surprise. "To show you the truth," he says, his voice rising and falling in a way that says _honesty_. She wants to say, _lie_.

"No," she says instead, keeping herself from scoffing. "No, if you wanted me to know the _truth_ , you could've just sent that folder to the news and see what they think of it. _That's_ how you get the truth out. You don't go snatching individual people, shoving shady folders under their noses. So why am _I_ here?"

It surprises her again, how steady her voice is. She could almost be proud.

The man blinked, pausing to straighten his sleeves meticulously. "You are here," he pronounces, tilting his head at her. "To learn the truth. Nothing more. For now, I'd simply like you to think about this. Think about your friend Matthew Murdock – and all the times he's disappeared unexpectedly and without explanation. Perhaps he's reappeared a few times with a variety of injuries that a normal person might call _crippling_ , and yet he'd just say he tripped? I'm sure these scenarios are familiar to you by now. Maybe it's time for you to start wondering _why_."

He straightens, looking past Karen – suddenly she realizes that the car is slowing to a stop, and they've returned to the same street that she'd been walking along. She stiffens, leaning forward, and the man smiles politely at her.

"We'll be in touch soon," he says, making it apparent that she's been dismissed. "I hope you've found our time together enlightening."

Karen's door snaps open abruptly, letting a piercing torrent of bright sunshine into the car – she sends a sharp glance of suspicion at the man, pausing for a long moment, before wrenching herself out of the sleek car, finding her legs wobbly as she launches herself onto the sidewalk. The same man who'd first appeared to her stands by the open car door, an impassive expression dominating his face.

The sounds of the city are too loud, blaring and demanding – it's all strangely blunt after her time in the quiet, humming car. Karen blinks repeatedly in the sunlight, squinting as she turns quickly to the black car, its side door already halfway closed– and suddenly, blindingly, Karen realizes that she's still holding the manila folder in her hand, so tightly that her knuckles are white.

"Wait –!" Karen stumbles forward, and the door pauses in its motion – the face of the man in the suit appears from the shadows, politely inquisitive. Karen lifts the folder in answer, shifting her weight uncomfortably. "You left your –"

The man's lips turn up slightly as he starts pulling slowly back into the shadows. "Keep it," he says, and then the door snaps shut, and the car is gliding away.

* * *

She can't look at the folder.

At first she'd shoved it into her purse, walking briskly until she'd reached an alley with a promising dumpster a few feet in – feeling somehow as if it were a bomb ready to go off at any moment, Karen had tossed the folder into its depths and hurried off, feeling hugely relieved. Just a block and a half away, she'd suddenly gotten the vision of someone somehow picking up that pristine-looking manila folder from the dumpster, leafing through its contents and immediately, irreversibly dialing 911. The nausea that floods her body sends her running back to the alley, and she hastily fishes the folder out from the reeking bin.

From then on, she walks more slowly, hunched over herself with the weight of that terrible folder stashed guiltily in her purse. She feels dirty just having it in her possession. Like a traitor, somehow. It doesn't make sense, but every time she allows herself to peek into her purse – to make sure that the folder hasn't fallen out, ridiculously – the nausea returns, threatening to cripple her.

Glancing at her phone, Karen sees that it's 4:43 – she'd been in that car for nearly half an hour. It seems like both much shorter and much, much longer, in memory – but most things seem out of proportion, when looked back on. Only most things didn't seem to be quite as hugely significant in her life as this tiny, half-hour-long event did.

Karen clenches her jaw, closes her eyes and refuses to think about it.

The walk back to her apartment is blank – she doesn't allow thought, none at all. Just a careful, mechanical process – step, step, step. Each alley seems darker than the last, though, especially from the corners of her eyes – finally she has to stop looking, forcing her gaze to stay tracked to the pock-marked, ragged sidewalk.

She gets home still breathing, which seems like a reward in itself.

The second she's in the door, she throws her purse to the ground and hurries into the kitchen, grappling into the refrigerator for a bottle of scotch. Then the bathroom, turning the taps of the bath on high. She changes her clothes, concentrating all the while on breathing.

Wandering back into the front room, she approaches her purse slowly – as if it were a wild animal, ready to flee. With her arms stiff like a robot's, she picks it up off the floor, removes the folder and throws it roughly onto the kitchen table– never glancing at the cover. She moves evenly back into the bathroom, locks the door and sinks into the hot water. _Don't think._

Forty-five minutes later, she sits at the table, still dripping, and opens the folder.

* * *

Rationalizing should've come first, so that she would've had a chance of talking herself out of looking at the folder. Unfortunately it's too late, and she feeds herself lame excuses to hide the simple reason. It was much too stressful of a situation in that car, so she hadn't really gotten a chance to analyze this information properly. And, if she really read through it, she would definitely be able to find some ridiculous something that would prove it to all be nonsense. She knew Matt, after all, and the suits didn't. Also, maybe they'd gathered some sort of information that was false or privileged or something, and maybe Matt could sue them. That would definitely be a nice way to put this behind them, she thinks.

They're legitimate reasons, probably.

The simple reason is that she's scared.

It's a very bad reason – or at least, it has a very bad solution – and it's going to make things worse.

Under the light of her cheap, half-way burnt out kitchen bulb, the information inside the folder is no less mind-boggling and confusing than it seemed when she was in the black car. There's too much, and half of it seems completely unrelated – medical-looking reports with very fancy words, records on the movements of strange-sounding groups and organizations. Lots of code-words and shorthand.

The other half is still stupidly, terrifyingly ridiculous.

It's organized to compare the movements of Daredevil as opposed to Matt. Daredevil's side of the story consists entirely of police reports and news stories – they date back to when the vigilante was still in the black-mask-ninja look, beating on Russians. The stories still make her cringe a little – especially when compared to Matt's timeline. It's much more discreet – records of appointments, things like that. Also a few photos taken from across streets and through crowds – Karen freezes when she sees them, frantically trying to pinpoint their locations and time periods. In one, it's visible how Matt's face is cut and bruised – Karen remembers the shape of the wounds, thinking back to the time when Matt and Foggy weren't talking. He was being followed, even then?

The thought sends an unexpected drop of horror spreading through her again, stilting her breaths. _God, he's blind._ She wonders fleetingly how close they got, if Matt ever suspected.

Then she imagines them following an anonymous Daredevil figure whose silhouette strangely resembles that of Matt, and she turns her thoughts away.

To distract herself, she looks at the rest of the stories on Daredevil. All the police reports and news articles are put in chronological order, and she fixates her thoughts on the dates, trying to think back to when she'd first heard about them. Chronologically. Which is silly, really, because she'd known about him before he'd ever appeared in the news or had ever caught the police's attention…

The thing is, she doesn't really want to think about the comparison that should come most naturally to her – that first night, when this all started; when she actually met _him_. Matt, too. It's hard, because she hadn't really known Matt and Foggy then; it's almost as if those memories are from the perspective of another person. In a way, they are.

She tentatively thinks back to that wet evening when she'd spent the night at Matt's, shivering and numb. He looks different in memory than now, and it's strange. That night she'd snuck away, guilt swirling inside her as she tiptoed past Matt's sleeping form – to her apartment, a place that will never not give her cold chills. Then. _Then_.

She tries to remember those frantic seconds – of course, her head had just been bashed into a wall, so it wouldn't be surprising if they were a little fuzzy. They weren't, though. Every heart-pounding moment was sharp like glass, and she remembered the funniest things – how her ankle had wobbled when she stood up, trying to see where her attacker and the masked man had gone; how the rain had belted down in sheets, making her sweater stick uncomfortably to her back. Watching the masked man in action had been exhilarating, terrifying – but also comforting, in a weird way. At least it'd been the asshole who'd tried to kill her that was getting beat up. It was a strange, sick sort of satisfaction – at the time, she hadn't cared.

But when he'd actually spoken to her – that's what is hard to remember. It's like a dream from long ago, partially faded from memory. She tries to pinpoint the little things – his height, or the sound of his voice. She remembers how tense and rough it had sounded – at the time, she'd thought it sounded as if he'd recently been screaming until he was hoarse, and it had creeped her out a little. Probably the desired effect. Now, she thinks it was really more constricted, strained down until it was only half of its potential volume. A bit like how Matt's voice is, she thinks, and it's not even a deliberate connection. His is quietly precise, sometimes so low that you almost have to lean in to hear him – she wonders what it would sound like of he spoke up.

The thought freezes her again, and her hands are shaking. Suddenly her memory of Daredevil's voice sounds awfully like Matt's, and she thinks it's probably because she's compared them. She tries to cancel it out, separate them, but it's impossible to do. In her mind they're the same. She shakily steers her thoughts away, trying to breath.

But now she can't. Memories of that night are coming back in droves, shoving themselves upon her with no reserve – how the two men had fought like wild dogs in the rain, slamming each other repeatedly into the wet pavement (Could it have been Matt? the thought sickens her), how he'd pulled her thumb drive from the beaten man's pocket, holding it in the air like a reprimand (Matt had asked her if she'd kept the file; had that been him, silently referencing the fact that she'd lied to him?)–

Karen shoves herself back from the table, stumbling out of the rickety kitchen chair and away; her hand is clasped over her mouth even as she tries to gasp for breath, coming up with nothing. Her hands are trembling violently, and her eyes are burning. _It couldn't be him._ Suddenly she realizes that she's whispering the words, squeezing out each syllable.

The bombings. The first time that Daredevil had officially appeared.

_No Matt._

His constant stream of injuries, excused away lamely.

_No way._

The visible part of the masked man's face, suddenly looking a whole lot like Matt's nose and jaw.

_Oh my god._

She's standing by the table, icy hands covering her mouth, staring at the confirmation records saying that Matt is Daredevil. All high-tech words and strange references. Not that it matters. What reason would they have for lying to her?

_What the hell am I going to do?_

A moment of silence.

And then, like a slap to the face, her phone rings.

* * *

After a beat, she leaps frantically for her purse; her heart throbs painfully as she claws her phone out of her bag's depths. For a second she can't read the brightly lit screen, can't discern the words.

She takes a breath, her brain shifts back into place – and it's Foggy.

For another long moment, she just stares, frozen – mind flying at the speed of light.

_OhgodwhatdoIsaywhatifhenoticessomething'soffwhatifIsaybutwaithedoesn'tknowdoeshedoesFoggyknow?_

Wait.

_Does Foggy know?_

The phone rings shrilly again, buzzing energetically in her hand, and her heart skips a beat; her thumb automatically darts to hit the green 'accept' button.

The phone faintly hisses static that she almost doesn't hear above the thunderous roar in her ears, in her chest. A clunk, a distant _chink_ sound – then, a heavy huff of breath right in her ear. " _Hey – Karen?_ "

 _Thump, thump, thump_. Surely Foggy can hear it through the phone clamped to her ear. She flounders, grabs a word and discards it just as quickly. "Uh-h, hi – um, hey. Hi. What's up?"

A moment of gravelly _fzzz_. " _Uh, hi…are you okay?_ " Concern bleeds through the connection, and Karen desperately tries to calm her breathing.

"Yeah. I'm fine," she says in what she hopes could be considered a bright, cheery voice, and not the million, more truthful alternatives. "What's going on?"

Every blank second in between words is torture. She knows there's no way he knows she knows, even if he knew which she doesn't know for sure yet – her thought process twists and seems to tangle irrevocably, jolting her back to the present. _Oh, God, Matt._

" _We-ell, I was just calling to ask if you're feeling up for a few rounds over at Jose's. In case you've forgotten, it's a time of celebration!_ " Enthusiasm, the trademark Foggy tone. She wishes that she could feel it like she would've, just a few hours ago. Instead, she just feels more panic as she scrambles for an excuse, an escape.

"Wha- celebrating? We're not celebrating anything today…" _Breathe._

" _Um, pardon me, but we are in fact celebrating the almost-completion of the Rickson case! Come on, surely you can feel it. That approaching sense of victory, saturating your pores…_ celebrate _, I say. You know you want to._ "

Hot stings of tears prick at her eyes, and Karen has to pull the phone away from her ear, holding it to her chest as she takes a gulp of air. One. Two. Three.

"Um…hey, thanks for inviting me, but…I'm not really feeling so great. I mean – dentist and all," she says, inserting an uplift to her words that tremors and shakes like a leaf – at least to her ears. "I always get a huge headache after…sorry."

There's a sigh on the other end, long and drawn-out. " _Ah, well. I tried. Hope you feel better soon. Don't let them stop you!_ "

Karen's breath huffs out in a laugh (surely it sounds more like a cry for help). "Yeah. You and Matt –" The word sticks in her throat, choking her – _Matt, Matt, Matt_. "–You and Matt have fun."

" _Kay. Bye._ " A click, then finally – silence.

Her fingers are numb; the phone drops out of her trembling hand, clattering to the floor. She can't draw in enough air, and she knows she's having a panic attack, but that's the problem because she can't slow down her breath, her heart, her thoughts, because _how could it be Matt, he's Matt but there's no way he could be and why didn't he tell us, why didn't I notice_ –

She sinks to the floor, hands clutching at her hair, eyes shut tight.

_Look who's blind now._

* * *

It's not really the fact that Matt is _Daredevil_.

Yes, the vigilante was hated more than he was loved in Hell's kitchen, and he'd been accused and, probably, officially charged with some pretty terrible things. She'd seen firsthand what he could do, and it wasn't pretty. Despite all that, she'd defended him – an unknown, masked vigilante who beat on people in the dark – to her friends, to Foggy and Matt (to Matt, who'd always brushed off Karen's words about Daredevil as if they were just _someone else's business_ ) and Ben too, even though she knew practically nothing about him.

All she'd known was that he'd saved her life, and he'd saved others too, and that she believed that he was good.

And all that is great. She has nothing against Daredevil.

It isn't that at all. It isn't the fact that Matt is _Daredevil_.

It's that _Matt_ is Daredevil.

It's something that's rather hard to wrap her head around.

* * *

Karen gets to work the next day an hour earlier than usual. The office is empty, of course – her heart thumps a little louder as she pushes the door open, but there's nothing to worry about, and she roughly shoves down the muted panic that's still there.

She'd almost called in sick that morning, but the thought of sitting all day in the same house as that folder had chilled her more than the thought of facing Matt and Foggy. So Karen had gotten ready like usual and come in, but not before prying loose a kitchen floor tile underneath a wall cabinet and placing the folder in that small dark space beneath it.

She's decided that she's going to be smart about this – cool and practical and sensible, because this is something that she can't screw up. She doesn't yet know enough. There's a whole folder about Matt and Daredevil under a floor tile in her kitchen, but she doesn't know enough.

She's inquisitive by nature, always wanting to get to the bottom of a story and find out the truth. (Kind of like how Ben was, like how Ben was always telling her not to be.) So before she does anything else – whatever else she could possibly do, anyway – she's going to find out more.

Karen has no idea what that might mean, except that it will start by going to work and pretending that everything's normal.

It's harder than one would think.

Matt and Foggy get there the same time, bringing a swirl of life into the quiet room all at once; they smile and greet her, and she smiles and says hi back.

"Feeling better? Well that's good – you know we'd never last a day here without you…"

She pauses for a second before giving any lies about her evening, but it seems like a lifetime to her – and as soon as she does, her eyes go to Matt and he's tilting his head slightly, a little frown on his face. She smiles again and puts more energy into her voice, but the frown doesn't go away.

"So, shall we crack on? I already heard from our client and they said it's good to go…"

Karen stays at her desk, rather than working with Matt and Foggy in the other room, but it seems like her skin is crawling the entire time. She can't help but look through the window every few minutes, her eyes involuntarily going to Matt's slightly hunched form in his ever-respectable suit and tie.

"Want lunch? I can run over to the Chinese place around the corner…"

When they eat, Foggy's presence is invaluable – he's perfect at filling what might have been awkward silences with endless chatter – but, despite Karen's earlier resolve to be smart about this, her eyes always dart back to Matt. His face seems to be angled towards her more than often as well, and suddenly whenever he turns his head blindly in her direction, it's not a normal Matt thing, it's an incredibly unsettling and ominous thing. She just wants to turn her thoughts off, but that seems to make it worse.

Later that day, Matt shuffles delicately out of the work room to stand rather precariously in front of Karen's desk. Her eyes flit across his form – trying and failing at not imagining him wearing a mask instead – as he clears his throat quietly, rocking on his heels.

"M-Matt? What's…up?" Karen's voice is not shaking, but her hands are and she tells them to stop.

Matt blinks, opening his mouth – his eyebrows quirk inwards quickly, head tilted ever so slightly to the side – he pauses before ducking his head in a bobbing motion. "Um – I, ah, I just wanted to ask you if you're – okay? It's just," he pauses again, pressing his lips together for a second. "You've been acting a bit – off."

Oh. _Shit_. Her heart is pounding again, but she takes a breath and she can handle it. Karen forces herself to smile ( _except that he's blind, idiot, smiles don't matter_ ) and speaks up, willing her voice to be smooth and convincing the way Matt's can so often be ( _except when he's dressed in a vigilante costume, in a dark and rainy alley with a beaten up dude hanging by a chain_ ). "Well…yeah, I know, I've been feeling a little weird today. I don't know, maybe I'm coming down with something." Her voice is smooth and a little weary, tired but optimistic.

Matt's head is still tilted, and he's still frowning. "Hm. Maybe." He blinks again, and his hands are clasped tightly around his cane.

Karen blinks. Matt shuffles.

"Well, I – hope you feel better."

"Yeah – thanks," Karen says, with what seems like the last breath in her body, and when the door to the other room closes she silently gasps in a breath.

_Shit._

_What am I going to do?_


	3. Chapter 3

 

**Chapter Three**

Matt pulls the wooden door shut behind him, letting his hand linger on the cool knob for a few seconds longer than necessary. Underneath his fingertips, he can feel the multitude of scratches and faults that mar the metal, but that’s not what his mind is on. Unfortunately he’s finding it a bit difficult to block right now.

His senses are wide open, all directed back into the room that he’d just left – focusing on the sound of Karen’s frantic heartbeat, her gasping breaths. Her words reverberate in his mind. Even someone without his abilities could’ve detected the lie in her voice.

_“M-Matt? What’s…up?”_

But he’s having a hard time pinpointing the lie. Exactly what part of her words was the actual lie. Judging by her reaction to his entering the room in the first place, it almost seems like she felt that speaking at all was dishonest…

“Matt? Hey buddy, you okay?” Foggy’s voice cuts through his muddled thoughts, and Matt gets the feeling that it’s not the first time he’s spoken.

Matt shakes himself out of his confusion, removing his hand from the doorknob and turning his head in the Foggy’s direction – it doesn’t even take a second for him to determine that Foggy is standing, having just risen out of his chair, heartbeat slightly elevated in concern for Matt. He listens for another second, but the beat doesn’t slow. _Thu-bump, thu-bump._

“Matt?”

He snaps his head up again, lifting his hands to scrub his face wearily. “Yeah – I, um,” says Matt choppily, forehead creasing into a frown. “Sorry, I just…” A sigh escapes him, and he shakes his head, moving back towards his seat on the other side of the conference table.

Foggy is still watching him, undoubtedly worrying for his sanity (heartbeat still going a little fast, and he’s sweating, but at least he’s breathing more normally), but he sinks back into his seat, brushing his hair out of his face. Matt lets himself fall into his chair, listening to the wood crackle and snap softly – it’s not loud enough to block out the constant sound of Karen’s thundering heartbeat in the next room.

“What? What’s wrong? Come on, talk to me.” Foggy’s voice is bent in concern. Matt sighs.

 _Thump, thump, thump._ He catches his breath, holding his words for a moment with head tilted back. “Did you notice anything weird about Karen lately?” The question is abrupt, and he can tell Foggy is a little thrown (no less concern, and his temperature is a bit elevated).

It takes a second, and Matt can practically hear Foggy thinking. He’s considering, and then Matt can hear the answer before it’s even delivered. “Uhh…yeah, actually, she has been acting a little weird today. Why, do you think – is there something wrong?” Foggy takes the care to lower his voice, matching the quiet tone that Matt’s voice is so often tuned in to (during the day, anyway).

Matt sucks in a quiet breath, tilting his head – _thump, thump, thump_ – he holds that breath in his chest for a long moment, brows drawn tightly together. Finally, he releases the quiet words, letting the sound of heartbeats fill the background. “I don’t know. She just – it feels there’s something going on with her. Something she doesn’t want to share.” _Still._ But that difference in her voice, the one that’s lingered ever since Fisk, hasn’t changed, and isn’t the problem. This is something different – screamingly, blaringly different.

Foggy is frowning, mouth hanging slightly open as he goes over Matt’s words. “Well – I mean, maybe she is. People are allowed to have problems without them being in trouble, you know. Maybe she’s just having a bad day.” Foggy’s tone is purposefully optimistic – what else is new – but Matt just shakes his head. In the other room, he still senses Karen – she’s sitting at her desk unmoved, not lifting a finger since he’d left.

“There’s something…” He shakes his head slowly, swallowing more explanation.

Foggy shifts back in his seat, sighing. “Let’s just give her some space and see what happens. One instance of waking up on the wrong side of the bed isn’t enough to warrant going all interrogation-alleyway-time on somebody.” It’s a joke – there’s a laugh in Foggy’s voice, and his vitals are back to their norm so he’s no longer worried.

Despite those telltales, Matt’s frown can’t help but grow even deeper. “I wasn’t going to…” He can’t help the insulted, defensive tone that’s crept into his voice either, but Foggy immediately looks up and raises his hands.

“I’m _kidding_ , Matt.”

Matt’s nodding, waving off the justification. “I know, I’m – sorry, just – don’t worry about it.” He lets his head drop, rolling his shoulders with a sigh. Ignoring the heavy feeling in his chest that says it’s something to worry about. “Let’s just – get back to this lawyering business.”

Foggy claps his hands together, tilting his head in a grin. “Sounds like a plan, Mr. Murdock.”

And it would be a great plan, Matt thinks as Foggy goes on to continue riffling through folders and doing lawyering business – it would be a fantastic plan, except for the fact that Karen is still sitting at her desk, unmoving, in the next room over. Matt wants to turn off his senses, but can’t focus to do so – probably because he’s really too busy still trying to analyze her smooth, secretly shaky voice.

There’s something familiar in the way that Karen is being – something in the beat of her heart, the frantic thought that went behind each word – and it doesn’t take Matt long to figure out, because he hears it practically every night already. Not a _lie_ – though he certainly hears plenty of those – no, it’s not exactly that. It’s just a feeling – the feeling that any man feels when he’s trapped in a dark alley, knowing that Daredevil is closing in. Panic. Dread. Guilt.

They usually try to hide it – they hide behind brave words and taunts, but the act is never far from transparent. _I’m not afraid of you. Why don’t you come out of the shadows and face me like a man? Come on – just get it over with then!_

The thing is, they’re always afraid. And they’ve always got something to hide.

Karen is hiding something.

Matt can deal with that part.

Except on top of that, Karen is also out of her mind with fear of someone discovering what she’s hiding. Of _him_ discovering what she’s hiding.

Wondering what that might be doesn’t do much for the lawyering business.

* * *

 

Matt’s the first to leave the office that day. When he does, Karen has to force herself not to sigh out loud in her relief. Foggy is still wandering around, after all. But despite the fact that it’s much, much easier to act normally with Matt not there, the tightness in her chest still hasn’t left. She can’t force herself to work, can’t get anything done. So she just sits and watches Foggy clatter around in the other room, getting ready to turn in for the day – every time he looks over at her, she picks up a pen or something and fiddles. It’s not a very good act, but sometimes Foggy can be oblivious. Other times, not. 

Like today. He notices eventually and comes over, a worried frown wrinkling his face.

“Karen? Is everything…okay with you?” His question is hesitant, not wanting to intrude, and Karen smiles up at him, the muscles in her cheeks feeling almost resistant to the movement. “It’s just…you’ve been acting different today. Matt was worried too – I thought it was probably just a bad day or something, but…” Foggy’s eyebrows are pinched together in endearing concern, and Karen finds herself wanting to ask him. Really, really wanting to.

Because, does he know? And if not, shouldn’t he?

Karen is frozen by her thoughts – after a moment she remembers that her mouth is still half-way open, and Foggy is still standing there, looking at her expectantly. She takes a quick breath, lowering her gaze and forcing a smile.

“I, uh – yeah, I just…bad day, pretty much.” A huff of a laugh, but it sounds so false and surely even Foggy (especially Foggy) can see right through it. Maybe. Maybe if he calls her out, she’ll tell him.

There’s a pause, filled with the soft sound of Foggy shuffling on his feet. “You sure?” His voice is suspicious. (She’s almost relieved.) “I mean, I don’t wanna pry…well, who am I kidding. Prying is kind of my thing.”

Karen swallows heavily. “Yeah, I mean – um, there’s just. This thing.” She stops to take a breath and find the words, because suddenly she’s realizing that there’s really no possible way to put this _thing_ into words. She sucks in a deep breath and holds it in her lungs, frowning at her desk, feeling Foggy shifting in concerned anticipation.

This thing. _Do you think there’s something that Matt’s not telling us? What do you know about Daredevil? Do you think that maybe, Matt’s blindness might be giving him superpowers?_    

This _thing_. Not exactly a thing that’s easy to spit out.

“Um, I mean, it’s not really a thing. Just something. It’s – it’s nothing, really. Not a problem. Don’t worry about me, I’m just – just, tired, not really feeling it today. Sorry.” She’s rambling and she knows she has to stop, so she presses a fist to her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut.

There’s a pointed pause before Foggy speaks. “Ummm, I’m guessing this might have something to do with the sort of business that women generally don’t like men to talk about, so I’m just gonna drop it and send you home, like, pronto. Obviously you’re not feeling very well.” Foggy turns to go and get her coat, arms stiff in embarrassment.

She has to bite back a laugh, and almost misses it. Instead she chokes down the hysterical bubble in her chest as Foggy packs her up and sends her off. Because naturally, today of all days, Foggy would decide to give her space and not pressure. And naturally, today is the day that she’s being sent home to have some time off, so that she can face the inevitable, sit back at that kitchen table and go once more through the impossible contents of that manila folder. Naturally, today is the day that her nonsense excuses are believed.

Foggy ushers her out as promised, and Karen tries to nod and smile and say _thanks_ like she should, even though she’s pretty sure that every word and gesture is paper-thin. _Are you okay going in a cab by yourself, or should I ride along?_  No thanks, Foggy, it’s fine, she says, and leaves it at that. When the cab finally arrives she hops in, sparing a tight smile at Foggy through the window before clamping down on herself. She can’t remember if she had nightmares last night, but she sees no point in hoping for any sort of reprieve this time around.

* * *

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violence, blood and gore...again, if you watched the show, you know what to expect.

There’s something strange in the air tonight.

Matt can sense it now, hadn’t been able to before with everything that had been on his mind, but now, when he’s standing on a rooftop, senses open and face out to the city – _his_ city – there’s a distinct _something._ Something is off.

He’d gone home early today, throwing in the towel after spending hours trying to work, trying to talk to Foggy and act normal while hearing that constant sound in the background – Karen, keeping a secret and hiding fear. He couldn’t do it. Even in his apartment, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything productive. He ended up simply throwing himself onto the couch, thinking his way into a stupor as he tried to figure out exactly _what_ it was …

Eventually Matt realized that his hands were clenched in his lap, tightly enough that his nails were digging into his palms. Suppressing a sigh, he’d forced himself to get up, and after wandering around for a good amount of time, he’d gone to the closet in his living room and unlocked it methodically, the same way he did most nights. The worn, splintered old wooden case sitting by itself in the middle of the small space was a comfort, a familiar piece of life that he could count on. (In retrospect, he _did_ realize how messed up that probably – definitely – was.)

Not long after, Matt finds himself falling into his usual nightly routine – up on a rooftop several blocks away, he manages to let himself relax – finally, the memory of Karen’s heartbeat can fade away and leave him alone for a while.

Of course, another worry is always eager to take up an old one’s place.

The night is strangely abuzz – strangely, because the hum of energy is hushed, stifled and held back like nervous anticipation. It’s hard to pin down, because of course the regular sounds of the night are still present, the background music of his life’s soundtrack. But on top of that is that _buzz_. Just so present, hovering over everything and leaving its mark on nothing.

He has to get closer. From here, all he can sense is the buzz, like a cloud of bees – make that vultures – circling.

Matt leaves the rooftop, not just Matt anymore but now _Daredevil_ , more than just him. It’s a feeling he may never get used to, not completely, but he wouldn’t want to anyway – the rush and uncertainty is what’s familiar and comforting.

He slinks through the night, feeling more at home in the darkness than anywhere else, and he doesn’t care. Maybe he _is_ crazy – but if so, then that’s what his city needs, and that’s exactly what he’s willing to be.  

At least out here, he can help people who need it. Unlike back at home, with his friends who apparently trusted him just about as much as the criminals who he hunts now.

 _Stop_ , Matt tells himself, cutting off his thoughts tersely. Thinking about the situation with Karen won’t help him one bit out here.

 _Besides_ , he thinks – the last word in his conversation with his unruly thoughts, which _definitely_ proves that he’s far from being completely sane – _it’s not as if you’ve never kept anything from her_. 

Sighing impatiently, Matt rolls his shoulders back and lets the train of thought go, reverting his mind back into a pool of calm, a mirror wide open and ready to catch the world’s every move.

The night welcomes him, hiding nothing – the whole city surrounds him, pulsing and spinning with its natural beat that is never too much for him to keep up with. The entire world is open to him – or at least, the only part of the world that he cares about tonight. It’s home.

* * *

 

It takes a while, but eventually Matt finds his way to the center of tonight’s action, the origin of the buzz. The trail of information was a long and winding one – resulting in more than a few unconscious bodies being left in his wake – but in the end, he finds out what he needs. There’s going to be a big drop tonight, supplying one of the most prominent dealers of the city.

A drop big enough that the dealer _might_ just show up in person, rather than sending his dogs to do the work for him.

It’s not at all guaranteed, but there’s absolutely no harm in Matt showing up as well. After all, he’s gone farther for less. And if the dealer _does_ show up, then Matt will have the chance to take out one of the biggest problems that Hell’s Kitchen had. If not, then he’d stop the exchange at the very least, and maybe even get a lead on the dealer for another night.

Either way, a few faces are definitely going to get rearranged.

His last and most useful _resource_ had – however reluctantly – directed him towards the wharf. That’s where it will take place, and soon too – he’s losing time with every second that he wastes, and so he _doesn’t_. Matt takes off with light feet, despite everything, because this is something that he can actually _do_ to help. Something not out of his reach. Besides…whenever he does this, whenever he pulls on his mask (or rather, _puts on_ his suit – it takes considerably longer now), that’s when he’s the most he can be. The most in touch with his senses – they completely take over, at times like this – and the most _useful_. The most productive. Not just in the way, as so many couldn’t help but see a blind man as (not that he’d ever really considered himself to be one).

It feels right.

Matt arrives at the building in particular – an old and decrepit warehouse, as _unsurprising_ as that is – with the night on his side. Slipping in from the roof, it doesn’t take long for the sounds of voices and motion to reach his ears – down below, on the ground floor. There aren’t any guards on the upper levels – why would there be? – so it’s easy, almost disappointingly so, for him to make his way to a convenient walkway hanging over the wide warehouse space, where he can observe the activities below, invisible. From there, he can _see_ it, and not just through his usual, blighted view. He holds in breath, and _looks_.

 _An array of thundering heartbeats and pulsing blood, the sound of clothes rustling loudly against itself, a storm of coarse breaths through nostrils and lips alike_ – the second that Matt stops and lets his senses _go,_ an overwhelming onslaught of sensory feedback rushes back like the high tide, the way it always does and he’s used to it. It takes a second to reel it in, to narrow his focus and block out the details, widening his ‘sights’ to see the big picture.

 _Half a dozen heartbeats_. Only one party is here so far, and they’re getting impatient; a few are pacing, a few sweating and taking more than one unnecessary sigh. _Two vans; the drivers remain in their seats_. _The trunks of the cars are filled with boxes, and beneath the smell of rotting cardboard lurks the muffled scent of potent drugs, wrapped tight in layers of plastic._ It’s this, of course, that the men are hovering around, hefting oily firearms for. _Nine guns; the scent of gunpowder and grease is fresh and thick, swirling about like a disease_. Their boss isn’t here, but the man in charge is standing by one of the vans, shifting on his feet and clenching a cell phone tightly in hand. _Young, probably new at this; heart rate is faster than the others – waiting for a call, yet dreading it at the same time._  

Overall, it means that Matt’s early – but not by much. Even as he finishes assessing the information, resolved to wait – from a few streets away, the full-throated groan of a pair of SUVs grows louder, their tires ripping away at the pavement with no hesitation. Matt knows immediately that it’s them – it only takes a few more seconds before one of the men below, this one stationed at the open hanger door, notices and shouts out. The man in charge jumps – _ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum_ – snapping last-minute orders to his men.

_“Hey – spread out; watch the perimeter of the area. Keep your guns ready – we aren’t going to have any mess ups tonight. Stay on your toes in case this goes south.”_

Matt barely has time to frown, listening to the man speak, before the other cars pull into the building – just barely, but he has to because the man is just too young, too inexperienced and something is strange here – but then the humming cars are turning slowly into the space below, the ripping sound of tires on damp pavement dwindling to a halt.

 _Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump._ A few seconds of loud silence, before – _snick_ – a car door opens, swinging open on smooth hinges, and claps shut again, emitting more heartbeats and more warm bodies. One in particular walks with slow, confident steps up to the nervous man, himself relaxed and calm.

“We had a set time,” says the first man – his voice is smooth, perhaps calm-sounding to everyone else, but Matt can hear how it wants to shake, how his heart is racing. “You’re late.”

The other man takes a slow breath, releasing it in an unbothered sigh. “We were delayed,” he finally replies, sounding completely unconcerned with the other. His voice is something far, far different from the other – his emanates control, composure, and _power_ , somehow. “We’re here now.”

The nervous man is clenching his jaw, taking a tight breath through his nose. “Well, do you have it all?” One-sided tension, because the other man is still ignoring the younger one’s discomfort…Matt pulls his attention away, shaking the conversation and the nervous man out of his head. _Enough waiting._

Whatever is going on here – drug dealing and who knows what else – it’s going to stop.

* * *

 

A middle-aged man – _lives alone, chain-smoker, too much musky cologne, well broken-in to the business_ – carelessly walking the edge of the building is the first to go down, barely having time to breathe before he’s pulled sharply into the shadows and knocked out cold with a quick blow. _One_. He leaves him lying in the dark, prowling onwards towards the next man. So effortless – it should be harder. Sometimes he wishes it were – not tonight, though.

There’s a scuff of shoe on concrete, a surprised intake of breath – but, all that air is forced right back out with a fist to the stomach, and as the man is doubled over, groaning, Matt strikes him over the head and drags him deeper into the shadows. _Two_. Still, the chorus of heartbeats emanating from the center of the building is steady, so no one has noticed yet. _Good_. The more he can take out quietly, the better.

 _Three, four_. He’s running out of men on border patrol. Doesn’t matter – the clock is ticking. Soon enough he’ll have to stop hiding, get out there and end this.

There's no time for him to worry about it before he's advancing on the next man, and this time things don't go quietly - and just like that, the whole world is screaming, echoing with shouts, shots, pointless noise mixed in with what he needs to hear.

The first gunshot is from the man Matt had been aiming for - it misses, the man steps back to try and gain some time, but Matt's already on him and slamming him into the ground, not having to bother about muffling the sound since there's nothing but voices now. _What the hell - you son of a bitch – Shoot him_! More shots - he rolls, trying to focus on the movement around him even though everything is still echoing, still being registered by his overwhelmed senses.

 _Left_. He dodges a full-body attack, knocking the other man to the concrete instead with a swipe of his leg as he spins and lands back on his feet. _Footsteps – panicked breathing, the click of a car door opening_. One, or more, of the men that he specifically came here to talk to, trying to get away. _Not gonna happen_.

Shaking off the onslaught of footmen trying to swarm him, Matt steadies himself and pulls out one of his batons, pausing only a second to aim – _the car door slams shut, frantic heartbeat trembling behind the glass_ – before letting his wrist flick forward. _Smash_ – the sharp sound of glass breaking, a grunt and the flat sound of a blunt object striking flesh tell him that his target has been hit. The heartbeat is still there, weakened and slowing but present – he listens for the sound of his weapon clinking back to the ground, but first there’s a yell from behind, pounding footsteps – only time to gasp in a breath, teeth bared, before he whips around to face the next attack.

It’s a flurry of blows and movement, ducking and spinning as he outmaneuvers the four men trying to take him down all at once. Swing, miss – a few hits glance off his shoulder, his side, but he ignores it, whirling faster. It’s not hard at all, too easy – these men aren’t even very good fighters, and his suit makes it all the more easy to brush off a punch or two. Even while throwing out his leg, tripping one man and flipping himself back into the air by tearing down another, Matt reaches out with his senses, trying to focus on the rest of the building and determine what was happening.

_Badumpbadumpbadumpbadump – still a good amount of heartbeats, but he doesn’t bother to count; sweaty hands gripping guns, pointing but not shooting – worried about hitting one of their own? they want to do it – but there’s one heartbeat, calmer than the rest, slower and somehow still in control; he’s watching, calculating, waiting – suddenly –_

Numbing pain – there’s a split-second of nothingness, then Matt’s head burns like it was split open, and he realizes that his face is pressed to the concrete, hands bent underneath his weight. _Oh_. The blows start to come – heavy and hard, raining down, with the overwhelming scent of sweat and sharp cologne threatening to gag him, but he’s moving before they can press him any further down, flipping his body around and sweeping their legs out from under them; he claws his way back up, onto his feet, suddenly gasping for breath and struggling to raise leaden limbs. _Too close – that’s what you get for not paying attention_.

Speaking of – the _click_ of a trigger about to be pulled, the sharp intake of breath before the shot is fired – Matt just barely throws himself out of the way, slamming into the concrete as the shot rings out rather than rolling gracefully like he might have normally done. He makes the most of it, turning it into a side roll and swinging himself back on his feet, turning towards the shooter.

From his right, a sharp squeal of tires protesting, unnecessary acceleration – a car, barreling towards him – he’s moving, barely thinking as he leaps, tucking in on himself, one arm reaching back to grasp a baton and hurl it back towards the huffing breath in the driver’s seat; glass shatters, shards of it sprinkling his back as he hits the ground. Again. This time, there’s no roll – instead he picks himself up off the ground on shaky arms, huffing heavily as he tries to catch his breath, and behind him, there are shouts of fear and frantic movement before the car crashes into a stationary one – _the impact emanates with finality, the heat of sparks flying out into the air, but the people inside are still alive, just unconscious, and now definitely trapped within the twisted shells, surrounded by shrill alarms and the smell of burning_.

Matt lets it all go, sealing out the rush of noise and motion behind him, and focuses his energy on the men still standing before him. _The steady rhythm of the calm man’s heart; the nervous one, fluttering and wringing his sweaty hands; a few more, over six in total, some aiming guns, all of them panting for breath like they’d just ran a mile_. Except the calm man. He’s standing his hands at his sides, head tilted back as he watches Matt. Even as Matt shifts his stance, facing them and straightening, the nervous man takes a gasp of breath and stumbles back, shaking his head as he turns and runs. His footsteps pound away, adding to the noise swirling around – a few of the remaining men look around, not sure if they should follow or not, but they stay, and so does Matt.

The calm man takes a slow, deep breath, his heartbeat slowing even more. _No fancy suit; he’s wearing simple clothes, thick and durable and practically armor in of itself; his breath is clean, no alcohol or drugs, and there’s a few knives tucked away on him, but no gun_ – Matt listens hard, reaching out with all he has to try and understand, but there’s something strange that he can’t catch. His head tilts practically on its own accord, breath stuttering, but suddenly there’s a change – the other man is opening his mouth, taking in a quick breath before he speaks.

“I thought I might be seeing you here tonight.” Completely calm, nearly unconcerned, his words slow and unbothered.

Matt can’t help but frown, lifting his head and opening his mouth to speak – though what he’d say, he had no idea, because this man made him feel like he was somehow out of his depth, or at least unaware of exactly how deep the water was getting. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because it turns out he doesn’t need to say anything.

In the seconds that follow, there’s a distant crash – Matt is slow to react, belatedly extending his awareness just in time to jump along with all the rest of them as another boom sounds, announcing the fact that they’ve got company. _Cars, voices, quick footfalls, radio static_ – the building suddenly seems much bigger as warning shouts echo through it, surrounding them.

“Freeze – get your hands in the air! This is the police! The first one to move gets a bullet in the head!”

Police officers are darting in from two points, crouched low with their guns out – Matt instinctively ducks to the ground, senses racing as they re-case the building, searching frantically for a way out. _Walkway overhead, two doorways behind, one goes up to the roof and one leads to the alley_. It takes a second to organize his thoughts, but still – every second could be one closer to him getting caught.

In that second, he really only registers three things. One – the police won’t shoot him if he moves. They’re beginning to get used to the fact that he’s helping, bringing in more criminals than they do, so even if they do want to take him in, they wouldn’t kill him to do it. Anyway, there are only a few cops here – _two, three, five heartbeats_ – so they’ll want all the help they can get to subdue the armed criminals. Two – the dealers here have had it. Most of them are already injured, now surrounded, so Matt’s mission of coming here and stopping the drop is accomplished. For the most part, anyway. Because, three – a couple of men have already snuck to the back of the building somehow, slinking into the shadows before the police saw. They’re getting away, and Matt’s probably the only one who’ll be able to do anything about it.

Well, he might as well make himself useful, then.

Matt spins away from the group still standing in shock, torn between putting up a fight and simply surrendering; a shot rings out, the bullet passing by with a warm breeze and barely an inch to spare. _Well, maybe they will shoot, then_. Still, he’s already moving back into the dark, too fast to catch, and before one of them can tag him he’s slamming through the doorway out of the warehouse, pounding after the runaways.

It’s not hard to catch up with them. The two men have only made it out into the alley, gasping for breath and trying to calm their racing hearts when Matt steps out into the cold night, his breath steaming into the air before him – the cool air makes his suit seem even more constricting than usual, trapping the heat of his body and stiffening his limbs.

The men stumble away, one lifting a handgun and the other raising his hands in a peace gesture. “Come on, man, j-just let us go. You’ve got what you wanted in there, whatever you’re trying to do – we just wanna go home.” His words are slurring in fear, heart stuttering – not enough, though. Matt doesn’t stop, just takes slow, stiff steps forward.

“If you really wanted that,” growls Matt, panting for breath, speaking slowly to let his words sink in. “Then maybe you should have stayed there.”

The cornered man’s breathing hitches, and Matt knows before it happens that he is lunging forward, letting loose a spurt of rage like a wild animal. An unchecked fist swings towards Matt’s face, but he just reaches out and grabs it in his own gloved hand - it only takes a simple twist and the splintering sound of bones breaking to send the man sprawling, crying out in agony. Matt barely has the time to turn, twisting his body to avoid the bullet let loose from the other man's gun - and even then, his heavy limbs can't move fast enough, and the bullet finds him, leaving a burning trail across his right bicep. It takes all his strength not to make a sound - instead he clenches his teeth, curling in on his shoulder and allowing his weight to drag him into a roll, aimed for the man still pointing a gun at him – _gasping, uncertain breath, thundering heart; the gun slips in his sweat-soaked palms, finger half-way on, half-way off the trigger as his heel scuffs the ground, body wanting desperately to flee_ – 

Matt rolls into a crouch less than a yard away from the man, already moving to the sound of his shoes scraping furiously against the pavement, scrambling to get away; it’s only a second before Matt’s on him again, swiping his legs out from under him with a swing of his uninjured arm. The pain of the bullet wound is beginning to weigh on his senses, filling every sound and smell with that hot, inescapable burning, but Matt still ignores it – he lets go of the pain through movement, using his still-capable left arm to pound on what he knows is the fallen man’s face – _again and again, he strikes, feeling skin break and smelling fresh blood well up and finally, the man goes limp_ –

It’s not until he notices the man’s breathing even out, ragged and weak but still there – _unconscious_ – that he realizes that he’d been shouting, allowing each punch to tear loose an angry, guttural sound from somewhere inside him and into the night. Matt drops back his head, panting heavily, and stands – his muscles audibly stretch in protest, while his right arm simply burns, the fire spreading all the way down to his fingers and across his shoulder.

It takes a minute for his senses to calm – when they do, he searches the alley that he’s in, taking in the slow breaths and steady set of heartbeats, blood beginning to thicken and crust over the two men’s wounds. They’re both unconscious – not anywhere near death, but certainly not going anywhere, anytime soon. Only then, when he’s sure, can Matt let out a breath that’s surely been trapped in his lungs this entire time, locked away inside his body, beneath his skin and within this suit. _It’s over_.

* * *

 

The cold air of the night seems to eat at his energy, making him want to collapse and just sleep and forget about how his arm burns. It’s always that way, after the fight is over and there’s nothing left to hit. Matt’s exhausted, struggling to stay sharp, and he needs to get out of there before cops are swarming over the entire block.

 _But_. He’s about to leave, telling his legs to move and carry him back to the rooftops, where he can make a swift getaway – but. He can’t move, his legs don’t listen. Fatigue is the natural response, but Matt’s senses are awake enough to notice that there’s _something_ , still. Something telling him to stay.

Matt drags his feet forward, not towards the way out but back into the warehouse, slowly shuffling back down the hallway with his head tilted in confusion – there’s something wrong, something obvious but he can’t place it. Matt tries to stifle his heavy breathing, confusion settling in because he knows that he’s missing it and he’ll kick himself for being so slow –

It’s really just the exhaustion – that’s the only thing it could be – that lets him walk all the way back up that hallway, back into the doorway leading into the warehouse, before he stops, movement stolen from him as the realization hits. It stuns him, making his heart skip a beat, as ironic as that is.

The building is silent. Yes, the shrill scream of car alarms is still there, as well as the creaking, groaning noise that any building is full of – but no heartbeats. Matt forces his senses to flatten, not daring to breathe or move as he listens, grasping at anything and everything – but there’s nothing.

 _What?_ It doesn’t make sense, and Matt can’t understand how to make it – _did they all leave, already? Even if some of the dealers ran and the police made chase, the injured men and a few cops would have stayed – how is it so quiet?_

He takes a stumbling half-step forward, finally allowing himself to gasp in a quick breath – and that’s when it hits him.

 _Blood_. The thick, cloying, sticky-copper-sweet smell of it floods the room, so intense and overwhelming that he can’t believe he didn’t smell it before – it’s everywhere, seeping into the walls, into his skin, snaking into his lungs and threatening to strangle him. He chokes on it, forces the air out of his chest and tries not to breathe but that only makes it harder, and he can’t help but suck in a full breath, tasting the heavy metallic thickness as it coats his tongue and throat on the way down.

 _So, so much_ – he reels back, trying to step away but there’s a strange pull to his foot, some force keeping it stuck to the floor – it’s then that Matt notices the stickiness, the spongy feel that the concrete ground suddenly has, and as he yanks his foot up into the air with a soft sucking sound, he knows what it is. He only has to listen, breath, _feel_ , to know what is coating the floor, pooled like syrup across the entire place, muffling sound and releasing that terrible smell and dripping off the bottom of his shoe with thick, heavy, viscous drops.   

 _It’s everywhere_.

His senses are fully alert now, because it’s _shouldn’t_ have been over, and now they’re painting a picture for him that he really, really doesn’t want to see. He can smell the flesh, the dried sweat mixed with the even thicker, even more potent scent of organs and already-decaying meat, ripped open for the world to witness; the muffled state of the blood-coated floor makes it easier to find the sharper feel of clothing, stiff polyester along with the sleek metal and scent of gunpowder smeared along well-oiled holsters. Four, six, nine on the ground; a few are slumped inside the cars, the blood slowly being absorbed by the soft upholstery.

All of the dealers who’d remained inside the warehouse, where he’d left them to get arrested – he can still smell the cigarettes on one, the sharp cologne of another, underneath the weight of all their blood. All the police officers as well, their energy and vigilance finally cut out from beneath them – the blood is beginning to thicken and dry, stiffening over their well-kept uniforms, layered like a fresh scab over their formerly clean scent. Two of them are women; he can detect their perfume, one flowery and one closer to musk, hidden beneath the blood.

He doesn’t need to see to know. Matt knows – every person who was alive just minutes ago, every beating heart has been silenced, and now all that remains is a warehouse full of congealing corpses, their throats ripped out so that the blood could flow free and fill up the building with a lake of misery and death.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, or read at all...I really appreciate it. :)

From then on, everything is red.

Matt can't sleep, can't breathe, can barely focus. He doesn't know how he made it home to his apartment last night – he remembers nothing, an absolute blank except for that ever-present smell and the sticky feel of the floor. No, that might be the only thing he actually remembers of going home – taking each step hesitantly, only half-certain in the act. Worried that he'd find the ground coated in blood again.

Which is ridiculous, a stupid fear. But it's not something that could be helped.

Instead, everything is red. He imagines that the walls of his apartment are red, and the floor too – the windows painted red as if with spray paint even though he knows that's not what it is, the furniture and everything else inside as well. And most of all, his hands. His hands are red, and he knows he's imagining this entire red thing, but immediately after he strips off his suit when he gets home, he stumbles to the bathroom sink and scrubs viciously at his hands for what must be over ten minutes straight.

He's barely even conscious at this point, but he gets out his medical supplies from under the sink and treats his right arm, then drags himself into the shower, and he thinks that the water streaming down in burning hot droves might be red, too. His over-active imagination is turned against him, and it's his fault anyway, but it still unnerves him a little.

He falls into bed hard, feeling the exhaustion like gravity dragging him down to the floor. Exhausted, yes, but Matt still felt that underlying restlessness, an itch that he knew would not let him sleep tonight. Because, still – there was too much red.

* * *

The next day.

Matt gets up, gets dressed the same as he usually would. The world still ticks on, the same as always, and he almost lets himself wonder if maybe what happened last night hadn't _really_ happened. Some sort of dream, hallucination –? There was practically no trace of the incident, other than the sharp soreness in his right arm.

And the dried blood on his boots. And the stink of blood, still in the air no matter what he does.

But still. Matt allows himself to entertain the possibility, just for a second – maybe that's why he can't bring himself to turn on the radio, listen for the news that surely should be blasting out into the world by now. There's not much point pretending, but then again – hearing it said will make it unchangeably, definitely real.

And maybe it wasn't.

So Matt doesn't check the news, and gets ready for the day like he always does, and heads down to the office.

The streets are loud, blaringly so – it's like everything is shouting, screaming at him to move faster, do something. Every little sound is like a call to action, infuriating, and Matt wants to block everything out but he can't focus, so instead it all just steamrollers over him, deafening and overwhelming. He walks along the crowded sidewalk, bustling with the morning like always, feeling like he's just bobbing along in a stream, completely helpless against the tide.

Matt is so distracted that he doesn't even notice the familiar heartbeat, smell – _presence_ – that should have stood out from blocks away, when he gets to the front of their office. Foggy's voice cuts through the din, though, hitting Matt like a brick to the head and startling away the noise.

"Hey, Matt! Wait up."

Matt freezes, jerking around to face the direction from which Foggy's voice is emanating – or at least, what he thinks is the direction, because with all this noise blaring and motion vibrating through the ground straight into the soles of his feet, he can't be sure of anything. He's too out of it, and he shouldn't be – he'll only put someone in danger, and it'll be completely his fault, and what use could he be in this state to anyone anyway –

"Matt? You okay, buddy?"

The words come from right beside him, making Matt jump again – Foggy has somehow appeared by his side without Matt even noticing, and he _should've_. _Dammit_. He wants to kick himself, but Foggy's voice has turned tight and concerned like it so often does and he doesn't want to upset him more.

Instead, Matt straightens slightly, attempting to rearrange his face into an expression that looks at least slightly relaxed. "Uh, yeah, I'm fine," replies Matt lightly, his voice quiet.

In the pause that follows, Matt can practically feel Foggy's eyes roving over his body – examining him for injuries, no doubt. "You sure?" asks Foggy suspiciously, a frown evident in his tone.

Matt subconsciously shifts his right arm, tilting his head into a half-smile. "Of course," he scoffs, huffing a laugh. _That wasn't convincing_ , he notes, but it's too late and Foggy's probably noticed that as well. Matt just shrugs slightly, turning away. "Come on, let's go inside." Matt nods towards the door and Foggy heaves an enormous sigh behind him, dragging his feet as he follows.

" _Ma-att_ …"

Foggy gets to the door before he does, pushing it open just as he reaches out to turn the knob. The disconcerting feeling of reaching for nothing grates on his nerves – he clenches his jaw, and he can tell that Foggy notices but doesn't care either. _Subject not dropped, apparently_.

"I thought we had an _agreement_ about this kind of thing," states Foggy stubbornly, persistently keeping pace right beside Matt as they ascended the frail-sounding stairway. "No secrets? Ring any bells?"

Matt grimaces, shaking his head. "Foggy, that's not – I'm not _keeping_ any secrets, it's just, just –" He sighs, drifting off deliberately. Foggy scoffs loudly – Matt imagines that he's rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, immaturity be damned.

"Oh really? So does that mean that _nothing at all_ happened last night?"

_Nothing at all_ – perhaps flashbacks are something associated with sight, but nonetheless Matt still gets them – a swirling nausea hits his stomach, along with the light-headedness of evaporated adrenaline and that heavy, gagging stench. Matt clenches his jaw again, swallowing heavily. "No, I-I didn't say that," says Matt, stuttering – he pauses, shaking his head as if to clear away the haze that seems to be filling it, clouding his thoughts. "I didn't – uh, hey, um, Foggy, did you – did you happen to see the paper, this morning?" The question is out of the blue, but it doesn't matter because suddenly he needs to know – to be sure.

Foggy pauses, blinking – they've reached their floor, and he stops, tilting his head. "The _paper_?" Foggy's voice is incredulous, blocky as if he were talking to someone who was incredibly slow. "Um, no, I haven't seen the paper. Why do _you_ want to see the paper?"

Matt licks his lips fleetingly, ducking his head away from the question. "I, I just wanted to see if there's anything – uh, new, but that's –" _Fine_. That's fine, he wants to say, but the word sticks in his throat and refuses to be pronounced.

Matt moves stiffly, as if in a dream, going to unlock their office door while Foggy stands stubbornly, eyebrows surely raised, suspicion on high – he doesn't know why he's avoiding this conversation, there's no reason too but he just does. Foggy won't blame him – _why would he?_ – but it's just seeming more and more impossible to voice, to even think about.

"Matt. What happened?" Each word is a rock, a boulder falling directly into his path, daring him to try and skirt around. He can't, he knows, but he also sort of wants to.

_I can't_. Matt sighs, slumping in posture as he pushes the door open roughly, shuffling into the room. "Nothing good," he finally mutters, loud enough for Foggy to hear – reaching up to rub his face, Matt removes his glasses quickly, clenching them tightly in his fist.

Foggy is there in an instant, his heart rate jumping. "Why, what? Tell me, Matt." His words are somehow both compelling and comforting at the same time. Foggy's always been more skilled than Matt in the art of speech - he's always known that, envied it as well but he's also sort of glad. Foggy's a natural, a perfect lawyer with the perfect amount of humanity to put a curb on the requirements of his profession. Foggy deserved that, and so did this city.

Matt slowly nods, lifting his head to look in Foggy's direction. "There was a...a drop-off, last night. Some big dealer, with a big provider in Hell's Kitchen. I tracked down the location, but..." _Click_. A sound leaps out at him, cutting off his words - the rhythmic pounding of feet on a staircase, ascending; with a slight sniff he detects a sweet and familiar scent, along with that heartbeat that he'd been so carefully listening to only the day before. Matt blinks, straightening hastily; his shaded glasses click together insistently in his hand, and with a tilt of his head Matt slips them back on.

"What? _Matt_?" More confusion, but Foggy has caught on enough to know that someone is coming. He takes a step back, turning away – glancing towards the door.

"Karen," says Matt simply, a quiet warning. There's a second of silence, except for the growing sound of Karen's approach - then Foggy heaves another sigh, stomping away with just enough restraint to not necessarily sound angry, if you weren't listening. Which Matt is – _when am I not?_ – Foggy walks into their overly modest kitchen, launching into a flurry of movement of rummaging through drawers and cupboards as he prepares the morning coffee.

Matt's left standing in their foyer, with Karen already on the landing outside – there's a rough rustle of fabric sliding together and apart, a hand digging through a purse, then the clang and clink of keys. He takes a quick half-step away, turning – he doesn't want to be caught standing right inside the door, as if he were waiting for her even though she probably wouldn't even think that. The door creaks, the knob turns – a sharp _squeak_ – then her quick intake of breath, surprise as she realizes that the office isn't empty.

"Oh – h-hey," says Karen in a rush – _heart beat jumps and speeds up, breathing uneven_ – Matt grinds his teeth and tells himself to _stop it_. "Um, I didn't – uh, you're here early?" Her words sound like a question even though they probably weren't meant to. Karen's obvious nervousness, her _unease_ , is so blatant that even Foggy has noticed this time, let alone Matt and he can barely even reply what with the burning curiosity/concern/frustration itching at his insides, tearing and trying to get out and wondering _what is wrong?_ Why this again, and why _now_ –

But Karen has paused, the silence stretching and turning slightly awkward, so Matt blinks and shifts his weight, smiling slightly even though the act feels impossible. "Morning, Karen," says Matt quietly – quiet, because a quiet voice is the best kind of voice to use when hiding what you feel. He swallows, unintentionally of course, and ducks his head to try and hide the obviousness of it. "Well – ah, we may be a little early, but then again – so are you, aren't you?" He exhales half a laugh, the sound seeming to dissolve into the air before him.

"Uh, yeah – guess so," huffs Karen, finally letting the door swing shut behind her. She slowly walks farther into the office – almost reluctant – there's an abrupt clink from the 'kitchen', and Karen turns, noticing Foggy for the first time. "Oh, Foggy – good morning." _You're here too._ Unsaid, but obvious. The words are warm, just like how her voice _wasn't_ when she spoke to Matt.

The sinking feeling that makes itself known in Matt's chest, hot and heavy and impossible to ignore, is ridiculous, and he _knows_ that, but it still comes and sweeps up inside him, burning infuriatingly away. _What did_ I _do?_

But the world, the conversation, carries along around him, so Matt blinks and stuffs it down like he should've before it even occurred. Foggy is taking a few mugs down from the cupboard while Karen walks over to her desk, throwing her purse carelessly onto its already-cluttered surface.

"Want some coffee, Karen?" Foggy – his voice is normal, at least, no lies hidden beneath the surface. Karen walks past Matt again, joining Foggy in that small room from which the smell of cheap coffee is already emanating.

"Sure," says Karen lightly – her hands chaff against her skin as she rubs her upper arms, smoothing away goosebumps. Matt is still standing where she left him, in front of her desk, twisting his fingers together absentmindedly as he listens, feeling distinctively left out. Again – ridiculous. But impossible to ignore.

There's a breath, quick and half-repressed – Foggy, about to speak. Matt turns instinctively, moving his head even though it's unnecessary. "Oh, uh, Karen – did you happen to see today's paper, by any chance?" There's a pause between Foggy's words, giving just enough time for him to almost _audibly_ glance in Matt's direction, and enough for Karen to notice, too.

A pause, then – "Uh, no, I haven't – I, um, I normally get it, but I guess I've been distracted lately…" Karen trails off, before speaking again with deliberate energy, loud and false. "Why, are you expecting anything?"

A disappointed breath, though Matt doesn't know why _Foggy_ is disappointed – he doesn't even know what Matt is looking for, or what he is dreading. "Uh, yeah, kind of…" He clicks his tongue, shaking his head – the smell of his shampoo wafts through the air as Foggy's hair waves back and forth.

"Well, do you want me to check the Net?" Karen asks, but she's already moving, skirting around Matt who's _still just standing there_ and darting around her desk to reach her computer, turning it on deftly. "Let's see what's up," mutters Karen, more to herself than anything, as the computer sputters and hums to life.

"What exactly are you looking for?"

The creak of hot glass and near-boiling coffee, sloshing inside, drifts from around the corner as Foggy pours the beverage into the three mugs sitting on the counter. "Uh, well…" says Foggy slowly, walking back around and up to Matt – he touches Matt lightly on his arm before offering him one of the mugs, despite surely knowing that Matt had already know he was carrying them. "I'm not _entirely_ sure…" The floor groans as Foggy leans over Karen's desk, passing one of the remaining two coffee mugs over to Karen. She accepts it with a quiet 'thanks', taking a small sip.

Karen huffs a slight laugh, swinging her hair off her shoulder. "Not _entirely_ sure?" Teasing, almost normal. Karen laughs quietly again, before turning to Matt. "What's this about?" Asking _him_. Her voice is nearly normal, at least not shaking secretly like before – either she's getting better at lying, or maybe Matt is overreacting. Maybe.

Either way, Matt still finds it hard to reply – he opens his mouth only to take a breath, mind racing to find words that won't sound weird or overthought or _anything_ – "About?" asks Matt, words quiet, again (the best tactic), shifting his weight and raising his eyebrows. _Relaxed_. "Well, it can never hurt to be informed on current events, can it?" He smiles, internally cursing himself again because it sounds stupid and the computer has already shuddered awake, its gears clicking annoyingly and she's about to check the news and see what he already knows is going to be there, loud and blaring and terrible. _Breathe_.

"O-kay," says Karen pointedly, with another half-laugh – she bends over, clicking with the mouse and typing at the click-and-clackity keyboard. "Well, let's see what google has to offer."

_Click. Hum_. Matt gulps, shaking his head fractionally to get the sounds out. "It might be nothing," he says tightly, mouth dry and ears beginning to ring, his own heart beginning to race – the sound roars in his ears, constant and roaring _thump, thump, thump_. "It could be -"

The page has loaded, he can tell, because Karen shifts expectantly and leans forward, a huff of a word – "Oh-" – under her breath, not meant to be heard, but that's when the silence hits.

Just for a moment, and then – motion, liquid sloshing, a shattering _crash_. Karen's mug, in pieces on the floor.

"What the – Karen!" Foggy, his heartbeat is racing again, and so is hers and so is Matt's – _thu-bump-bump, thu-bump-bump_ , all crashing and roaring and pounding in his head. "What, what is it!?" He's moving, moving towards her probably thinking to try and comfort, because she's staggering away from the desk and the computer with her hands clapped over her mouth, sucking in broken breaths, and Matt's still just standing there. Frozen.

"Karen?"

She inhales harshly, almost sobbing – her heels click against the floor, breath puffing out again helplessly and he can smell her breath, the warm minty-ness of it. "I have to go," pants Karen, pushing past Foggy roughly, not once glancing at Matt, snatching up her purse and striding towards the door. "I have to…" Her voice is tiny, almost a whimper, and Matt can't move. Not to comfort his friend – either friend – the computer is still ticking, whirring, the webpage surely still up, whatever it says still there.

The door slams, and her heels click away, along with the sound of her breath coming in tight, torn gasps – along with that pounding, racing heart.

The office remains anything but silent – frantic heartbeats thundering, breaths heaving. Matt can't move. "What the _hell_ –" Foggy stares at the door, then at Matt, and suddenly he's moving, walking around Karen's desk quickly. The broken shards of Karen's mug tinkle as his foot brushes past them, crunching down upon a few fragments.

There's only a second, fleeting and endless, as Foggy reaches the computer screen – a moment as he takes it in, reads whatever horror is presented and Matt can't _breathe_ –

Finally, he inhales – exhales. Foggy's breath shakes, loud. "Holy _shit_."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos, everyone! Each and every one helps me to write more and write faster. ;)

"Foggy."

The word, the name, rings in the air as if it were the only sound, even though it really, really isn't. Seconds tick by, and then again – "Foggy!" Matt forces it out in one breath, clenching his jaw in frustration because _still_ , that shallow silence is firmly in place. Foggy is standing, stiff and silent, behind Karen's desk – presumably reading the news. News of what happened last night.

Matt needs to know.

Of course, he already does. It's obvious – the horror of last night's occurrences has definitely been made public. Karen's reaction proved that. Even though – it proved it, but it still makes no sense – why did she react that way? She'd panicked, run from the office and never once, not _once_ glanced at Matt, in a way that was so deliberate it couldn't be coincidence, could it – it makes no sense. But. He'll cross that bridge when he comes to it (even though it feels like it's already underfoot). Right now, he needs to know.

And Foggy won't listen.

The silence eats at him, like ants crawling over his skin. "Foggy, _please_ –" Matt bites out, stepping stiffly forward – finally, Foggy moves. Matt hears his muscles stretch, his cheap jacket slide over the cotton of his button-up shirt, and he hears the quick breath that Foggy takes as he opens his mouth, about to speak. But still, no words. Instead Foggy waits, then sighs heavily, reaching up to rub at his forehead forcefully.

Matt wants to scream.

But no, he doesn't do that. Instead Matt straightens in a way that's not quite fidgeting, placing one hand on his hip in a stance that he hopes Foggy will see as _impatient_ , because the term is only one of the many applicable to him right now. "Fo–" He starts again but bites off the words, clenching his jaw and exhaling heavily with a shake of his head. He waits a moment before saying the words – slowly, quietly. "What does it say, Foggy?"

The silence stretches on, punctuated only by their two pounding heartbeats still thundering in the back of Matt's mind, as well as the fact that Foggy started sweating about fifteen seconds ago and now he's flushed, standing silently and apparently just staring at Matt. It's infuriating and Matt just needs him to _say something_ –

Foggy begins to shake his head slowly – he's chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Like you don't already _know_ what it says?" A pause, then he lets out a huff of a laugh, completely devoid of humor. "Right."

_Already know, you already know_. He does, but there's more to it than just that and still, Matt needs to know what _they're_ saying. Of course, it's not as if he has very high hopes – no, after everything, he's already learned to expect the worst. And more. Instead of hope, it's the opposite – the panic and urgency that was ripping at Matt just minutes, seconds ago, is slowly beginning to fade, and is being replaced with sheer exhaustion. Because, truly, he is, sometimes. Exhausted of doing things, exhausted of having to look back and regret and fix things. Exhausted of having to lie.

But not with Foggy – he's not lying to Foggy anymore, not really, even though he still tends to omit slightly because despite being there for him and all that, Foggy will never really understand. He'll always be disagreeing with the part of Matt that is Daredevil, and always trying to get rid of that version of Matt. Foggy doesn't approve. Matt doesn't _need_ approval, though – all he needs is trust. Foggy trusts him. He does. Except now, his voice is angry and bitter once again –

Matt tilts his head like a question, swallowing dryly. "What –"

"You were there, weren't you? Last night, when _nothing_ _happened_? Or is it them who're lying, this time?" Foggy's voice is steadily rising, his heart rate increasing, and still none of this is helping.

The exhaustion is beginning to pull at him, making Matt want to just slump to the ground and not even bother with this, with all of it. But still, the _need_ – the itching in his gut, telling him he needs to know – won't go away. So he closes his eyes for a moment, lowering his head and breathing. "What does it say?" Every syllable, deliberate – slow and concise, the way he likes to talk. No one can tell what you're really feeling if your words are so quiet, so sharp and clipped and neat.

Foggy grinds his teeth for a second, but he sighs again and Matt knows that this time, he'll tell him. Foggy clicks his tongue – he shrugs, and then reads it out in an announcer-like voice, loud and clear.

"Devil of Hell's Kitchen Becomes Mass Executioner," says Foggy. "Seventeen people including five police officers, violently slaughtered by the Daredevil last night." A sharp crunch sounds – Foggy has shifted, stepping on one of the broken shards of Karen's mug, left shattered on the ground.

Like Matt, right now. Only, the way he shatters is more of a mute, silent thing, deep in his chest where hopefully, no one can see.

He'd known it was true. It _happened_. Still.

Seventeen people dead – he hadn't known there had been so many, he'd never checked how many bodies there were last night. He should have, but he didn't. Instead, he'd fled the scene as if he really _were_ guilty. Maybe he really was.

_Violently slaughtered by the Daredevil_ – it isn't true, technically. But as far as he is concerned, it might as well be. _By_ , or _because of_ – same thing, really. It was him. Those people, who he was supposed to _protect –_ the good just as well as the bad, because _none_ of them were supposed to die – are gone. It's his fault.

And what's worse, is he isn't even that angry. He should be _furious_ – at whoever really killed those people, whoever decided to pin the murders on him, on Daredevil – but he's not. Not as much as he should be.

Instead, he's just exhausted.

Matt closes his eyes and feels himself sway on his feet, and distantly realizes that Foggy is still talking.

* * *

Despite it all, she can't help but feel surprised.

Surprised, but not at what's happened, _this_ , the situation – of course, she _is_ ; she's completely shocked, thrown, still reeling and unable to fully take it in. But that's a given, really, and not surprising. That's not what she's surprised at, and really she can barely even realize that she _does_ feel surprise; it registers vaguely, a steady emotion growing slowly underneath the raging sea of _other ones_ that she wishes she could ignore.

Ones like panic, terror, _horror_ – they take over everything on the surface, moving her limbs and using her voice, clawing their way up her throat and threatening to choke her, drown her if she doesn't _get out of there_. Get out of the office, away from Foggy and Matt, because _Matt_ – they rule over everything, and she can't run fast enough. Down the stairs, out onto the street, away, away, away.

Those emotions rule the surface, and Karen can't rein them in. She doesn't try, keeps running, and just subconsciously notices the _surprise_ – underlying everything, constant unlike _them_ – increasing rather than screaming. Surprise – not at this, the news, the fact that Matt is who he is. Instead, it's aimed at herself.

Karen is surprised, because she doesn't fear him.

Not doesn't – can't. She's tried, and now, after reading _that_ – she shouldn't have to try. It should be automatic. Even without the seventeen dead, the five police officers, the violence – it's clear that the Daredevil is dangerous. Deadly, perhaps unstable – so many things. Matt is all of them. And now this – Karen doesn't know if it's true (how could it be? Matt's not a killer), if the media can be trusted or if the entire thing had been set up (of course, a few days ago she would have said that Matt _wasn't_ many things that he, in fact, _is_ ). She tries to tell herself that if it _was_ true, she'd feel differently, except that it probably (definitely) wasn't so she doesn't – it's a lie. It doesn't matter, either way.

Karen's not scared of the Daredevil. Not scared of Matt. She can't be.

But, she's scared of so, so many other things.

So she runs, and the streets blur into one single, endless path that refuses to lead anywhere but straight back to where she started. _Run_.

* * *

"…even a distinct possibility that you could tell me the _truth_ , and _all_ of it, this time, because this, _this_ , buddy, is not something that I can just ignore. Not this time."

Matt blinks heavily, shifting on his feet, trying to shake it off – the exhaustion, still clinging to him like a dried bloodstain, ignored for too long. "I-I didn't lie to you, Foggy," says Matt slowly, wearily. "I just, I didn't even have the chance to tell you, and I…" Matt finds himself twitching slightly, rubbing his fingers together incessantly, and he quickly reaches up to snatch the glasses from his face, pulling them away with a click.

They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and Matt can only hope that his aren't shuttered, because now would be a good time for Foggy to see the sincerity in his. This time, it's genuine.

Foggy lets out another angry sigh, crossing his arms tightly. "Well, here's your chance. Talk."

Matt nods, pacifying, trying to keep Foggy from running off because he can feel that the reaction is not that far off – after all, it wouldn't be the first time. But, if Foggy just gives him a chance, then Matt can make him see sense. Make him believe…the truth. Except – he already _should_ – the thought jolts to a halt as the obvious leaps out at him, like some grotesque prank. Except it's not.

Does Foggy… _does he actually think that what they're saying is_ –

Matt gulps and blinks, opening his mouth to speak, to gasp for air because it's suddenly becoming harder to breathe. "I- alright, just…Foggy, you don't –" A pause, a second of breathlessness, again. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but it's nearly impossible to voice them. _Could he?_ "…you don't - actually think that I killed those people, do you?"

And at that, there's just silence. Foggy stares at him for endless seconds, not saying a word, and it's like Matt is falling down into a bottomless abyss, gravity tearing at him and trying constantly to speed the ride, to crush him at the end. He can't breathe.

It's only when Matt lets himself take that gasp of breath, finally breaking the silence that he can no longer stand, that Foggy starts, lifting his hands over his shaking head. " _No_! No, of course I – I mean, _no_ , I know you'd never…" His words fade slowly away and he takes a deep breath once more, placing his hand on his hips. "I _don't_ think that, Matt, I just…I wish you wouldn't _do_ this. _All_ of this. The secrets, the lying, the – nearly getting yourself _killed_ every night, and now look – you're going to be wanted for murder! A horrible, terrible murder! And I don't even know the hell _why_!" Foggy stands there for a second, almost panting after his rant – Matt just stands still and listens. Honestly listens, while he subconsciously catches his breath and, in the back of his mind, thanks the Lord for Foggy. _He still believes me_.

"Why, Matt? What the hell happened out there last night?" asks Foggy, his frown more than evident in his voice. But, he's calmed down a bit – his heart rate is close to normal, adrenaline evened out. Matt feels like he should do anything to keep it that way, so he sighs and rubs a hand over his face, giving in.

"Ah, it was…I don't really know – most of it, anyway –" begins Matt slowly – but, something he says doesn't set completely well with Foggy. He's leaning back, taking a quick breath to speak, so Matt rushes to get his words out first, set on pacifying Foggy. "Like I said earlier, it was a drop-off, involving a big dealer. Someone who practically runs the drug business in Hell's Kitchen. I tracked down the location, went there – found one party, about half a dozen, who were waiting, and a while later another party showed up. I don't think the big guy ever showed, but someone important was there. That's when I moved in, took most of them out – most of them were just injured, some unconscious, but then the police showed up. I chased after a few guys who made a run for it – caught them, was gone for no more than five minutes – and when I went back into the warehouse…they were, they were all – all just –" Matt breaks off, swallowing the words and shaking his head. _Dead._

From across the desk, Foggy runs his palms up his forehead, releasing a tight sigh as he stares at Matt. "So…during the five minutes that you're out of the warehouse, some crazy psycho runs in and rips out _seventeen throats_ without fuss, and then runs out again, all before you get back. Why? To avoid you? To _frame_ you?" Even while dissecting the facts, something Foggy was born to do, he still sounds overly tense, out of his element and overwhelmed.

The last thing Matt wants is for Foggy to overreact again, but then again, maybe – could Foggy help? With this situation, Matt really has no idea – everything is still so distorted, upside-down. "I don't know," replies Matt wearily, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "T-to frame me, maybe – the media certainly has no qualms about that. It's just, I have no idea – _who_ , or why, or…I don't know."

A silence wells up between them for a moment, but it's one that Matt can deal with because, while it does stink ceaselessly of those questions and their dreaded answers, at least it's also a companionable sort of silence – uncomfortable, but not unaccompanied. For Matt, it's a thousand times better than before.

Finally Foggy heaves another great sigh, shaking his head. "Alright, well – temporarily putting aside this new impending-disaster-horror story, let's go to issue number two." Agitation, again, but Matt can already feel his own beginning to form, somehow. "What the _hell_ is going on with Karen?"

* * *

_Karen, stop._

She has to tell herself, _order_ herself, before her legs finally stop pumping so frantically – before she can slow to a quick, urgent walk. Where – nowhere, more likely, but it doesn't matter. Like they say – it's the journey that counts, not the destination.

Karen is panting, the air whooshing through her lungs and out again in a rush – she can't seem to stop trembling, though for _what_ , she really has no idea. She _is_ overreacting, probably – hyperventilating, panicking, but she can't help it. These past few days have been perhaps the most stressful of her life – and that's _really_ saying something – but really, it was only the _secrets_ that were killing her. Knowing, yet not knowing.

So Karen forces herself to stop and just _think_. She needs to be impersonal, detached – she needs to think this through, logically. She needs to think about the _Daredevil_. Not Matt.

Firstly – that article. _Daredevil becomes mass executioner. Seventeen people violently murdered._ Horrifying, unbelievable – but that's just it. She doesn't believe it. Of course, she'd never even had the time to actually read the thing, but she knows – there won't be any real proof or evidence. Probably witnesses saying that they'd seen Daredevil at the scene – the _only_ one at the scene, even – it didn't really matter. It didn't _fit_.

Why would the Daredevil start killing people _now_? After all he'd done to help, trying to _save_ people – up until this allegation, the vigilante had never been accused of murder. He never went so far as to kill. It just wasn't what he did.

And although Karen is doing her best to think impartially, she still needs to use what she knows – and really, she has more than enough information on the _Daredevil_ to know that this couldn't have been him. She has the image of that man seared onto the back of her eyelids – the memory of that night, when he _helped_ her and did everything he could to get the truth out. That man – righteous, morally intact, _good_ – would never have done this.

_And_ , impartiality be damned – Karen has to think of Matt too, because what's the point of keeping a distinction between the two identities anyway – she knows, really, that Matt could _never_ have done this. Never.

Matt obviously is a very good liar, a very good actor – somehow living his life as Matt Murdock while at the same time, fighting as the Daredevil, and all the while keeping his friends in the dark, can't have been easy. Of course, Matt definitely has a pretty messed up take on a lot of things – it's only too easy for Karen to remember that time when they were fighting to bring Fisk down, when Matt was constantly telling her and Foggy to _trust the system_ and _have faith in the law_ , and all that bullshit –

He was certainly convincing, though, and meanwhile, he was spending his nights running around in a ninja suit, beating up Fisk's grunts. Somehow Karen can easily imagine that Matt must have had a pretty good excuse for that. _I do trust the system, but right now the system needs my help to do its job._ Something like that. Matt doesn't always tell the truth, but he doesn't _lie_ either – at heart, he's honest. And – good.

So no, it wasn't him. Instead, this has to be some sort of cover-up, possibly an attempt to frame him – right now, the specifics aren't important to her.

She knows that Matt is nothing to be afraid of – or rather, impossible to be afraid of. She knows that he's trying to help, trying to do good, so right now there's no reason to run from him.

Except, there's the second thing – just that. A question – _why the hell am I so afraid of facing him?_

* * *

_What the hell is going on with Karen?_

The question hangs in the air for a moment, thick and nearly palatable. Matt's every breath rushes loudly past his lips, rough and unchecked – his head twitches sideways slightly, involuntarily, as the sounds surrounding him seem to pulse. "I- I don't know," says Matt slowly, voice catching audibly – even for Foggy's ears.

Foggy seems to stare for a moment, unmoving. "You're telling me you have _no idea_ –" His voice is filled with disbelief, and Matt cuts him off, waving a hand through the air.

"No, I – I noticed that something was off, has been for the past few days, but I-I don't know…I can't figure it out. I don't know what's wrong, or what's happened to her." Matt shakes his head as he speaks, relieved to be able to speak the absolute truth for once – because, in this case, he probably could use Foggy's insight, meaning he'd need to know everything. Not that there was much to tell anyway. "She's just been acting…well, scared, recently. It's like, her – her heart rate is always elevated, her adrenaline spiking – and whenever I talk to her, her _voice_ – there's something wrong with it, like she feels dishonest just by speaking…I don't know, it just doesn't make much _sense_ –" Matt finds himself trailing off as he notices how quiet Foggy has become, standing unmoving across the room.

There's a moment of silence before Foggy finally moves, releasing a tight groan of frustration – it's one Matt's heard before, and he belatedly realizes that perhaps all of that was information that Foggy did not want to hear –

" _Arggh_ –that's just –" Foggy's voice is strained with turmoil, tense and dissatisfied. He's obviously trying hard not to shout, but his voice raises as he speaks anyway– "You can't _do_ that, Matt, you can't just–just _listen_ to someone's _heart rate_ and _adrenaline_ , and–and _feelings_ – ugh, it's not _right_ , it's not– _fair_ –"

Now it's Foggy's heartbeat that's pounding again, signaling just how angry Foggy actually is – at this, again. Matt should have known not to have walked right into this argument, _again_ – it's obviously a sensitive spot for Foggy. Not one that makes a whole lot of sense, but oh well.

Matt isn't about to waste more time arguing about this. He licks his lips quickly, squaring his shoulders as he faces Foggy. "It's not exactly like I have a choice in the matter," replies Matt firmly, his tone harder – hoping that this would be the end of it. "I can't _not_ hear all of that. And, it's a good thing too, because if I _didn't_ then we wouldn't have any idea at _all_ about what's wrong with Karen."

Foggy scoffs unhappily, shaking his head slowly. "Yeah," he mutters, clearly not at all completely agreeing. "Well, it shouldn't be too hard to figure out, anyway."

Matt tilts his head in question, frowning – he really has no idea, and yet Foggy already sounds like he has a hunch – "Why, what?" Maybe there _is_ something else…

Foggy's voice sounds anything but agreeable. "From what you're saying and from what I've seen, Karen's got a secret and she's afraid to share it with us. And, I have a sinking suspicious that this secret might be about _you_." Foggy's tone is hard, devoid of comfort – another sore subject, though at the moment it's unclear just which one –

Matt steps back, straightening and abruptly lifting his chin with a frown – Foggy's words are faintly alarming, even though for now he doesn't know why. " _What_?– why would – Foggy, t-that doesn't make any sense…"

Matt can almost hear Foggy rolling his eyes, as well as the frustration and a slight growing resentment that the other man is feeling – why, though, is lost on Matt, who'd thought just a minute ago that things were going well – Foggy shakes his head and slaps a hand across the surface of the desk between them. "Oh, come _on_ , Matt! It's been pretty obvious – Karen hasn't been acting weird towards _me,_ or even _us_. She's been acting weird to _you_. I was right here, I saw that awkward ten seconds of frostiness between you two when she walked in – it's not _something_ , it's _you_. And, well…it could be any number of things that's got her acting so weird, but seeing how she reacted to that article…" His words are hinting heavily at something, and it takes a second for just _what_ to hit –

And when it does, it hits Matt surprisingly hard, despite the fact that – Foggy is right. It should have been obvious – he'd already noticed, already seen that Karen has been avoiding _him_ , growing nervous whenever she talked to _him_. She has a secret – or, she knows something. Something she can't, isn't supposed to…Matt swallows drily, ducking his head and blinking as his head starts to pound –

"You don't think – sh-she couldn't…" He has to force out every word. _Surely, it couldn't be – but what if_ …Matt's thoughts are sluggish, almost, and it's nearly impossible to comprehend. If Karen has found out his secret – he doesn't know what he'll do. How he'd even respond – it was bad enough with Foggy. _Not that I regret that_ –

Foggy is shaking his head slowly, spreading his arms wide. "I don't know, Matt. But I think it could be a _possibility_ that Karen has somehow gotten some idea about you being…who you are." Matt can feel Foggy's eyes, lingering heavily on him. Watching, judging – it's impossible to dismiss. "And you know, maybe that's a good thing. Don't you think that she has a right to know? I mean, especially after _this_ – if she does somehow know, or even suspects, then don't you think she'd rather have it _confirmed_ , and at least then she'll know for sure that you're _not_ a psychopathic mass murderer?"

What he's saying – Foggy's words are more than worth considering, and Matt knows it – but still, he doesn't say anything, can't think of how to respond. It's just – _I'm not ready for her to know._ How would he even begin to explain himself? But – what if Karen _does_ know? Then, what does she think of him now – after that article, her panicked reaction?

Matt's breathing is speeding up, catching uncomfortably in his throat. "But –"

Foggy sighs heavily, turning away. " _Matt_ –" Whatever Foggy wants from Matt, whatever he expects – Matt has no idea, can't think. "Fine. Look, just – one of us should really go after her and stop her from doing anything stupid. You just – I don't know, stay here and figure yourself out."

Matt barely hears the words, but Foggy's already leaving, his body sending a wave of displaced air in Matt's direction. Matt turns, stumbling – the door creaks open and slams shut again, and the sound of footsteps pounding away drifts through the thin walls of their office. "Foggy-" It's pointless to call out – he was too slow, but Matt still does, his voice catching rustily. The word echoes in the hollow-sounding room, unheard.

He's left standing alone in the empty office, panting and still trying to think. _What…am I going to do?_

* * *

The sound of cars, trucks and buses rumbling past, the smell of gasoline and grimy smoke – it's all familiar and comforting, now, despite how bothersome one would _think_ it could be.

Karen sits quietly on a bench facing a busy street, hands folded in her lap. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, almost half-shut – it's been a long day, after all. Or – a long morning. A long hour.

Time to herself has never been a good thing for Karen. What with her past, everything that's happened in more recent times – moments alone, to _think_ , are more often torturous than not. And recently, she's had so much time alone that the pain of every _thought_ has been reduced to a dull throb. She's used to it.

Still. It needs to stop; she needs to _do_ something –

Something irreversible, as it happens. Karen knows – she's known all along, probably – she needs to talk to Matt.

_Really_ talk to him.

A heavy sense of foreboding swells in her chest at the very idea, but it's better. The feeling of dread at having to do _this_ is much, much better than the sense of helplessness she felt at doing _nothing_. This will put the whole thing behind them – Matt will probably react badly, and she's sure that things will change, but _overall_ – it'll be better.

So, Karen sucks in a deep breath, tilting her head back – the hard back of the bench presses uncomfortably against her shoulder blades, and she pushes herself forward to stand up. Just a few feet before her, the street whizzes with motion and sound – she stands and watches for a moment, her mind set.

Finally Karen turns with a slight nod, ready to walk back to the office again and do this–

Just then.

Her heart skips a beat, stalling in place; her breath catches, trapped in her lungs –

A familiar black car rolls smoothly over to the side of the road, sidling up to the curb.

_Shit – no, why now_ _– what do I_ –

The side door snaps open, revealing a man who hops deftly out from the dark interior – faceless, or might as well be, because Karen can't really see, can't seem to react. Her heartbeat throbs in her ears, rushing through her head, blurring everything. The man turns swiftly to her, leaving no room for mistake.

"Good morning, Miss Page. Have you seen the news?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *BTW: I've noticed that, as I write, I'll occasionally slip into past tense accidently because that's the tense that I almost always write in (this is actually the first fanfic I've written where it's first tense. I think, anyway.). So far I've caught it a few paragraphs down, and then I'll have to go back and fix everything. But, I'm worried I may not catch everything and, judging by how easy it is for me to slip (especially since I'm currently writing like three other stories in past tense), that's kind of likely, so please – if you notice any slip-ups where the verb is past tense, please tell me? It'd be a great help. Thanks!


	7. Chapter 7

"I take it that you have…ah, come to terms with the fact that one of your employers is secretly a vigilante?"

A beat of silence, then – "Or, perhaps not. After all…last night's events were quite shocking, weren't they? …That _is_ the reason we're here now, in case you were wondering."

The dark interior of the car is filled with a slight, barely-noticeable hum of smooth, expensive machinery. It actually grows more and more noticeable the more that Karen thinks about it, and soon it's pressing on her eardrums like the infuriating buzz of a million bees.

She stares resolutely forward, refusing to even turn her head – Karen won't acknowledge the man sitting beside her. This time, she refuses to be scared.

Of course – _easier said than done_ …

A slow movement flickers in the corner of her eye – the man reaches up towards his face as he crosses his legs. "I wonder, Miss Page…what are your thoughts on Daredevil, these days?"

_Breathe_.

Karen closes her eyes slowly, squeezing her eyelids shut.

"What –" The word slips out before she can bite it back, and suddenly she's gasping a quick, ragged breath – she shakes her head, biting her lip and it's just to _do something_ and not look at him. "Wh- what does it matter, what I think? What…" – _breathe, breathe, breathe_ –

Karen clenches her jaw, forcing her face into a (relatively) smooth mask. "What do you _really_ want?"

A few feet away, the suited man takes a long, slow breath – all the while, she can feel his eyes on her. Examining, studying, dissecting–

"…Miss Page." His voice seems suddenly more straightforward, more to the point. It should be a good thing – an end to all these games, even – but the change sends an icy shiver down Karen's spine, nevertheless. "As, I believe, you've already been made aware, my organization is trying to _help_ you. As a matter of fact, not only _you_ , but your friends as well – and yes, that includes the wayward Mr. Murdock. But to start helping you, I simply need to know – what do you think of the Daredevil?"

The seconds tick by, and Karen keeps her eyes pinned resolutely to her hands, lying twisted together in her lap. Silence – the man waits.

_So…some kind of test?_

Karen's thoughts are inconveniently sluggish, reluctant to process information the way they normally do – she's stuck in this moment, mulling over those words, unable to make a choice. _What to say_ – there were too many possibilities. Too much room for error.

But – she knows one thing for sure. This man, whoever he was, does _not_ want to help her. She'd have to be an idiot to not figure that one out – that, or a very scared, very desperate young woman feeling backed into a corner and helpless. And _that_ is probably just who this man thinks that Karen is right now. It's almost true – was true, for a few moments there, ever since this thing first started. Except, right now she's not. She's been through too much to freeze at a time like this.

So, instead – she has to think fast, and get _out of this_. And then – have a long, long talk with Matt.

Breaking the silence, Karen releases a heavy sigh – if she didn't know better, she'd almost think it sounded like she was giving in. _Almost._ "I…I don't know." Her voice trembles, bordering on a whisper. "I mean, obviously – he's a m-murderer, and it's _terrible_ , just – he's also Matt, and I…I don't know what to do." A beat of silence – the hum swells, too loud.

"…he has to stop, somehow, but I – I don't know what to do about it. I mean, I-I can't even look at him." She bows her head, hunched over as she stares at her shoes – with her hair hanging like a curtain in front of her face, she's shielded.

The man takes another breath – _inhale, exhale_. It seems to last countless minutes, and she waits –

"I understand."

His voice is softer – _compassionate_ is the word one would immediately bestow on it. Except, Karen's listening, and that's not it. Not really.

"You want to help him, change him, because he's your friend – a man who helped you out when you were in need and took you in when you had nowhere to go. You want to believe in him. Except, then there's that – he's also a murderer. A mass murderer, practically a terrorist. The entire time you've known him – even while he was helping you and giving you your second chance – he was lying, keeping secrets, and breaking the laws that he'd sworn to take to heart."

He pauses, taking a breath – gathering his thoughts or letting Karen collect hers, she wasn't sure. "He's obviously unstable, a danger to not only countless people but also to himself. As you say, he's a murderer – but he's also your friend Matt. And just as your instincts tell you, he's _not_ too far gone. Your Matt _can_ be saved from the Daredevil."

The man's voice has grown passionate, so much that Karen can't honestly say that it's fake – she can't tell. But whatever it is, it's caught her attention, as much as she hates it – she can't _not_ straighten and turn her head, meeting the man's fiery eyes.

In his dark eyes, she can see determination and belief. But – that doesn't mean that he's sincere. _That doesn't mean he's right_ – Karen blinks and looks away, mentally shaking herself _. Just get out of this._

The man sighs slightly, leaning back in his seat. "He can be saved," he repeats, his tone calmer now. "We want to save him. But to do that, we'll need your help."

…need your help.

_Ah_. So that's it.

Karen takes a moment to breathe, each lungful of air coming a little harder, a little faster. She lifts a hand to scratch her ear, subconsciously, trying to not pay attention to the little things because that's exactly what he's paying attention to. "But…how…" Her voice trails off steeply, lost in the smooth hum of the car. "How would I do that? What could I – and, what do you mean by _save_ , exactly?" She turns, frowning at the man with a calculating gaze. After all, it's a little late for proving a point.

He nods slowly, his eyes never leaving her face – it's beyond unsettling, but Karen doesn't look away either. "I'm glad you ask," he says, tilting his head slightly. "What do I mean by save? Well, Matt Murdock is obviously a very troubled man. Were his identity known by the police, he would be instantly arrested and tried in a pointless case – pointless, because after last night's massacre, it doesn't matter what sort of defense he gets. Mr. Murdock would certainly be sent to prison for the rest of his life – or worse. There's no doubt about it."

"However, _we_ don't want that to happen. We know that Mr. Murdock has his justifications, and that overall he's been trying to help this city. Who knows – perhaps there's more to last night's events than we know. Whatever the case may be, the result is the same. Matt Murdock doesn't need to be sent to prison – he needs _help_. But first, he needs to be stopped. We think that, if we can begin to alter Mr. Murdock's way of thinking now, then perhaps he won't have to go through that trial. It all depends on a multitude of things, but one of the first and foremost, Miss Page…is you."

The final word seems to resonate in the smallish space, echoing in Karen's mind. _You._ Of course.

He's giving her a second to take it in – to realize exactly what could happen if Matt were discovered as the Daredevil. To imagine the horror of that huge mess. But – Karen's already spent the past few days thinking about not much else. She doesn't need time for that.

She needs time to figure out what to do.

The man's words are bordering on tempting – she can't deny it. He's wrong about some things – Karen _knows_ that Matt didn't kill all those people in that massacre, so really he shouldn't be sent to prison for _murder_ – but of course, he's exactly right that the police wouldn't hesitate to arrest him and put him away as fast as they possibly could. The man is also right because – Matt _does_ need to stop, and more likely than not, he _does_ need help.

She'd almost want to actually agree with him, except…

"I'm not going to beat around the bush about this. It boils down to simply this: to help Mr. Murdock change, we need the cooperation of someone close to him. We need information, insight – a closer eye on him. If you agree to work with us, then our goal of saving him could be achieved that much sooner."

His words are straightforward, blunt – rather than making the situation clearer, they actually just make Karen more wary. More suspicious – and really, that isn't surprising at all, considering–

She finally lets the breath she's been holding out in a heavy burst, almost like a scoffing laugh but so _not_. "So – you want me to spy on him. For you."

Her words are just as direct, and yet – it feels like she'd missing something, lacking a crucial piece in her synopsis. The man nods in assertion, his movements as precise as ever. "More or less," he says, leaving the word _less_ suggestively hanging. "…yes."

_Spy on Matt?_ The situation, once again, seems to be expanding uncontrollably in Karen's grasp, taking sudden leaps and bounds that she's just not ready for. If it is even in her grasp at all. _Probably not._ But really, the most confusing and unsettling thing isn't on him – it's on her. Because, she doesn't know why, but still – she's actually considering the man's words.

_I actually am_ – but she can't help it; what he's saying is true, and it's exactly what she needs to hear. That Matt can change, can stop doing this – _except that he didn't do anything wrong, he never killed_ – that he can put away the secrets, the lies _– except that he's lying to help people, keeping secrets to do good_ – that maybe, she can help him do that.

_Except_.

Karen closes her eyes, mind racing because every second that ticks by is one closer to that moment where she has to make a decision–

_Except_ – there are things nagging at the back of her mind, telling her otherwise. Stray thoughts, pieces of the puzzle that don't quite fit – _evidence? Immediate trial – police haven't found it yet – if Matt didn't kill those people last night, then who did – and why…_

_Why do_ they _want to help save Matt, anyway?_

"I –" Karen starts, still frowning into her lap – her thoughts are still tangled up in her mind, along with words unsaid and needing to be heard. "I don't know, I don't know if I can…not that I…" Confused, uncertain. The sentence dangles, incomplete.

The man makes a soft sound of sympathy. "I understand that this must be a difficult decision for you. It's entirely up to you, but let me just say – whatever your decision may be, don't let yourself take complete responsibility for the outcome. After all, whether you choose to act or not could have absolutely no effect on Mr. Murdock's fate. Considering the delicacy of the situation…well, it'd be naïve to be very optimistic."

His tone is practical, matter-of-fact and blatant. As if what he's saying is obvious. As if she should already know this. Except – she doesn't.

"…What are you talking about?" … _Matt's fate? What_ –

The man turns towards her, probably giving her a look filled with incredulity – or perhaps pity – it's too dark to tell just which. "Well, Miss Page, as I'm sure you've realized by now – Mr. Murdock has only survived this long by the skin of his teeth." She had realized that, yes, but it wasn't _that_ bad, was it –

"Since he began his crusade as the Daredevil, he's been beaten half to death on numerous occasions. You were even aware of a few of those occasions, even though you didn't know _how._ Well, he's gotten by so far – barely, but he has. He's been lucky. Unfortunately…"

The words pause, the moment of quite dragging out infinitely – Karen almost wants to interrupt, cut him off before he can finish speaking because she knows this is something she'd rather ignore and take for granted –

He takes a slow breath, the words slipping forth once again. "…sooner or later, his luck is bound to run out – and I believe that day might be approaching faster than we know. If Mr. Murdock keeps this up, he's going to get himself killed."

* * *

Standing there in that empty office, at some point, becomes unbearable – Matt can't stay still, anymore, and he can't _do anything_ there either. The walls seem to be closing in, constantly – more and more, the longer that he's there alone. He can't take it.

_Need to get out_ –

So Matt grabs his stuff hastily, picks up his cane and unfolds it with a flick of the wrist – not that he'd need it, not that he ever does, but still. He lets his footsteps fall heavily on the noisy wooden floor – the boards _creak_ and _groan_ loudly, complaining about his every move. It's not usually as noticeable as it is now. Of course, usually the office is filled with the sound of Foggy and Karen, of their breathing and their beating hearts and their laughter –

Unlike now. Every single sound that the floor, the walls, the _building itself_ makes – every sound is a grating, agonizing reminder that they're not here. And – _maybe they're not coming back_.

But he can't think about that right now – can't think about anything – he lets the door slam shut behind him, taking the stairs two at a time. For once, Matt doesn't care if someone sees the blind man effortlessly navigating down a stairwell without a cane or guide – of course, if he wanted to bother paying attention, he'd know that there was no one there to see. It just didn't matter.

He hits the ground floor, careening out onto the sidewalk with just the right amount of control to appear...well, in control. No one on the street gives him a second glance, and he takes off at a brisk pace down the sidewalk – back the way he'd came, less than an hour earlier. It was strange, really, how so much can happen in so little time. How a single hour can seem to hold more events and changes than entire weeks, months or _years_ put together.

What he needs, Matt decides, is _sleep_. Real sleep, unlike the kind he's been getting for the past few…well. For a long time. Sleep unmarred by the color red and the stench of blood. Also unbothered by questions like _who killed those people_ , _who's trying to frame him_ , or _what is Karen hiding_ – that could all come later. Or never. For now…just, _sleep_. What a wonderful thing.

Matt drags his feet home, wishing he could just forget it all and rest.

Exhausted, again – that's one reason. Blame it on that – he doesn't notice the handful of heartbeats that are carefully keeping pace, following close behind him. _Buu-bump, buu-bump, buu-bump…_

* * *

Karen remembers a crinkled orange balloon adorned with a monkey, the string clenched in Matt's scuffed fist – she remembers the way he'd walked across the room, so stiff and obviously in pain. The days she'd spent calling him, him and Foggy both, getting no answer, no reply other than orders to _sit tight_ and _don't worry_ and _stop asking._

That was the time she knew about. The bad one. How many others were there – how many times more had Matt pushed himself to the brink of death? And…how many times more could he afford to do that and get away, relatively unscathed?

_How soon before his luck runs out…_

The man sitting beside her has obviously noticed the reaction that he's wrung from her – Karen doesn't bother to try and cover it up. Her forehead is creased beyond the point of no return, her mouth left hanging open as she breathes noisy breaths, in and out–

He finally sniffs, just loud enough to be heard and noticed. "…My point, Miss Page, is that you should prepare yourself for the worst, whatever your decision may be. Anything could happen. That said, I think it's only fair that we give you some time to think and decide what you want to do." His words sound like a dismissal – an end to this conversation, finally – it's a sweet relief.

Karen gasps in a quick breath, nodding quickly. "Yes, I definitely – I need some time…" She trails off for a moment, swallowing heavily. _Time_. "Not too much time, though…"

"Don't worry, Miss Page – we'll be in touch soon." He assures her, a smile in his voice. "Have a good day."

A sudden stream of bright sunlight blinds her, sending a jolt of panic and confusion racing through her – she doesn't know how or when it happened, but somehow the car is already parked by the curb, right beside the bench where she'd been sitting mere minutes ago. The other man who'd first greeted her was now standing with the car door held open, stiff and polite, waiting for her to climb out.

Karen makes a sound of thanks before she can stop herself – _when did they stop being the enemy? even for a second_ – and awkwardly clambers out of the vehicle, squinting in the harsh morning light. She wobbles for a moment on the sidewalk, feeling dizzy, but it's only for a second – and when she turns around again, the door is snapping shut once more, with the car pulling away and merging into the street traffic. Again – here one minute, gone the next.

Karen lets herself fall back down onto the bench, her legs suddenly feeling heavy and uncooperative – her vision is doing strange things, as well, and it grays for a second, blacking out the world.

_It's almost as if…it never happened. Again._

Almost – except it certainly did.

She knows three things.

First – somehow, miraculously, she'd managed to convince that man that she would consider his offer. For a moment there, she'd convinced herself, too. But. _There's no way in hell I'd ever spy on Matt for them_.

Second – they were right about one thing. Matt is living dangerously – too dangerously. At this rate, he's going to get himself killed any day now, and if he doesn't, then it's just as likely that he'll be caught by the police. Arrested, tried and sent to prison – all for a crime that he didn't commit. _I can't let that happen_. To prevent it, she _has_ to talk to Matt. Because – third…

These people want something from Matt. Karen doesn't know what, doesn't know why – sure as hell doesn't know why in the world they'd need _her_ help to get it, but still – they do. It's the only thing that makes sense.

Whatever it is – it can't possibly be good. And Karen's going to make sure that they don't get it.

* * *

"…sir."

The hum buzzes on, unbothered – undisrupted by any other human sound. Just silence. The man in the suit holds a sleek black cell phone to his ear – not quite touching. Despite its high quality, the voice on the other line still comes out slightly gravelly – warbled, fractionally, by the device's speaker.

" _The mission_?"

A pause – a breath. Hesitant. "A success, sir. I had to resort to plan B as far as convincing went – Miss Page is quite the optimist. However, our point was received. I told her what she needed to hear."

" _What about the 'deal'? Did she agree?_ "

A light scoff – there's no humor, only barely-concealed relief. "She said she'd think about it," says the man – almost amused. "But she won't. It's like we anticipated – she's too loyal to ever act as a spy on a friend, whether or not she thinks they might also be a mass murderer and vigilante."

"… _but not, I hope, so loyal that she tries to help Mr. Murdock herself_ …"

Now the man's words are less certain – only be a degree. Not noticeable enough to be heard over the phone. "She won't. At any rate, she's probably expecting Daredevil to drop off the map any day now…after all, it's very likely for him to be killed, what with the danger he so _often_ places himself in…"

" _Good. Then she shouldn't miss him too much when he does_ …"

* * *

_Home._

The familiar scent and feel of his apartment envelops him the second he walks in, comforting and safe. Usually. But he's not going to think about the _other_ times right now. Matt sighs and shuffles in, shrugging out of his suit and loosening his tie.

Today's only goal, he's already decided, is _sleep_. Then, tonight – he'd get to work. For now…he refuses to think about Karen (and the fact that she might know he's Daredevil) or Foggy (and the fact that he's kind of upset, again, and Matt doesn't really know why) or anything (…the possibilities are endless. _Not right now_.). He forces his mind into complete blankness, devoid of emotion as he makes his way to his loving bed, not bothering to change out of his shirt and slacks.

Falling heavily onto the silky sheets, Matt lets out an enormous sigh that, surely, must have contained breath that he'd somehow been holding onto for the better part of the day. His limbs ache dully, feeling ridiculously heavy – uncooperative like lead. He forces them to relax, closing his eyes, forcing every single noise and sense out of his mind. _Blank_.

It only takes minutes for him to begin to doze off – floating, unaware of everything around him; he might as well be truly blind. Falling into one of those rare, deep sleeps, Matt shuts the entire world out.

His body obliges – the world is silent.

Except – it's actually not. The normally alarming sound of heartbeats fall on deaf ears, for once – there are several, over half a dozen, surrounding the apartment, closing in. Matt doesn't hear, never stirs – but they creep closer, quiet and inconspicuous – swarming in, like spiders homing in on their prey. Picking locks and prying open windows, never stirring more than the slightest brush of air…they find their way in.

Matt never hears a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter wasn't originally going to get out for another week at best, due to – well. Real life, last month of school – exams and upcoming finals are basically smacking me in the face, and then of course there's Civil War (speaking of – CIVIL WAR CIVIL WAR WHO'S F*CKING EXCITED ABOUT CIVIL WAR?!)…ahem. But anyway – yeah. I wasn't going to write this quite so soon, except – after reading all of the wonderful reviews you guys left me, I kind of couldn't not. Thank you! Your reviews are literally what this update is riding on.
> 
> Oh, and also – I finished season 2. OHMYGOODNESS THE ENDING. Like, talk about cliffhangers. I'm not going to specifically spoil anything in case any of you out there haven't seen it yet…but, yeah. WTF, MARVEL. (oh wait, it's Marvel, that explains it.) ;)


	8. Chapter 8

The sidewalk blurs into one solid block beneath quick feet, oblivious to the others around them. There are other sounds, other footsteps and other breaths - but Karen only notices her own. _Clack, clack, click, clack_.

Familiar streets and intersections come and go, unnoticed - she's been by them too many times to take note. She stares at the ground, gray and unobtrusive, and ignores the world around her.

Continues to ignore the world - until it notices her.

"Karen?"

A familiar voice, filled with conflicting concern and relief - she snaps back to awareness, glancing around. There, striding towards her across that same gray sidewalk - is Foggy, his face wrinkled with worry. For a moment she only blinks at him, standing there as he makes his way to her side.

"Hey, I've been looking everywhere for…um, Karen, are you – okay? You look like you've seen a ghost," says Foggy hesitantly – he looks desperately unsure, like he wants to crack a joke but doesn't want to make things worse. Karen is glad he doesn't, because odds are, it would.

For a long moment – too long – she just stares at him, silent. Because, Foggy – sweet, loyal, ridiculous Foggy…she can't decide. Can't figure it out, can't just _say_ – does he know? Or doesn't he? It feels wrong to leave him out in the dark, if he doesn't – he _deserves_ to know – but then there's Matt, and everything, and she can't _think_ –

Suddenly Foggy's face is moving up in her vision, bobbing closer with an almost panicked frown. " _Karen_? Hey -"

It's only when he reaches out, about to place a hand on her shoulder - to comfort, to help, she knows - that Karen snaps back into focus, jumping and stumbling back. It's just for an instant - immediately afterward she's doing her best to regain her composure, to put Foggy at ease, but it's obviously not working. Foggy - her friend, she thinks to herself - is now looking distinctly put out, almost hurt. He slowly draws his hand back.

"I, um," says Karen, blinking. "I'm, yeah, uh – sorry, it's just – I…" _Just stop._

Foggy takes a second to breathe - he squares his shoulders, meets Karen's eye with his own empathetic ones. "Karen, what is it? What's wrong?" His tone is insistent, and Karen knows she can't escape these questions, not this time. Not from Foggy. "For the past few days, you've been...I mean, don't think we haven't noticed. And now this...just talk to me, K."

Foggy's eyes are like wells of sadness and concern and worry. The idea that all that emotion is meant for her - it sends a warm surge through her, but even that can't erase how cold she feels at the moment.

And then there's... _don't think we haven't noticed_. Key word being, _we_.

Well of course Matt noticed, he has _heightened_ _senses_ or whatever the hell they call it, how could he _not_ \- and Karen certainly feels like an idiot, to have ever thought she could hide it.

But that doesn't matter, because...no more secrets. _Right?_

_Need to tell Matt the truth._

As for Foggy...

"...Listen - Foggy, it's just that..."

...She doesn't know.

"...It's just...it's complicated..."

She forcibly stops herself from wincing, but her eyes still dart away from Foggy's at the obvious transparency of that sentence. It's less that half-hearted - Foggy doesn't even hesitate.

"Then how about we _uncomplicate_ it," says Foggy. His voice leaves no room for argument. "Come on, let's go grab a drink and then we'll talk."

"But..." _But what?_ Karen can't think of a single reason not to. But, neither can she work up enough willpower to search all that hard... _I'm just so tired_.

It seems that it doesn't matter, either way. Foggy briskly reaches out to take her arm - no hesitation, no wariness. "No buts," he says, steering her around and marching her down the street.

And Karen doesn't try to stop him.

_Need to tell Matt…_

But…Foggy deserves the truth too, doesn't he? Or whatever's left of it…

Karen lets her eyelids slide closed, with Foggy leading the way. Matt would understand completely.

* * *

_Kshuhh–_

One sound – maybe not even that – and he's awake.

 _Ba-bumm-bumm-bum-bu-bump_ – his own thundering heart adds to the sound, pounding painfully in his throat – what is this?

There's too much movement, soft tiny sounds and a strange taste in the air and a decisive feeling of _wrong_ that he can't exactly place. The answer is right there, right on the edge of his thoughts, but there's no time to bother reaching out. In a fraction of a second he's rolling to the side, rolling off of the soft and pliable surface that he'd been laying on ( _bed_ ) and onto the hard, smooth ground to the side ( _wood floor_ ).

At the exact same instant – the air above him splits, rent in half by something hard and narrow, flying through with deadly accuracy and intent. The sharp ring of metal snaps through the thickness – and the crumbling sound of old drywall follows, stiff and crackly.

The projectile quivers there ever so slightly, impaled in the wall just inches above his head. Matt rolls away, shifting onto his feet and throwing up his fists on instinct. Everything's throwing him off – the feel of the room, the air, just everything; he's especially aware of how strange it feels to be fighting without his suit on, and instead wearing slacks and a crumpled dress shirt – the thought sends a wave of dismay through him, but there's no time to think. The warmth of other bodies is too close, too immediate. All around – he can't tone out the deafening _ba-bum-bum-bum-bump_ and what the hell is even going on here, anyway? His thoughts won't straighten out –

But then the air is moving around him again, and there's the creaking and humming of the floor and the clothes that his attacker's wearing and the man's joints and skin – Matt's aware enough to duck away from the first swing, easily twisting his body as he throws a punch of his own–

But it doesn't hit. Instead, there's a change of air whooshing up from near the floor, and the second that he _should_ have spent by taking this guy out is instead wasted on a slow realization and a pointless attempt to block. The kick hits him hard, and he's thrown back into the wall a few feet behind.

But even as he hits the floor – the pain just washes off him, like water. Something like this doesn't even affect him anymore. And meanwhile – the blurred lines and blunt edges of everything around him have sharpened. He can feel every miniscule dent and irregularity on the wooden floor beneath him. He can smell the vaguely lemon-scented floor cleanser that had been used on it a few weeks back, and beneath that there's the long-since faded scent of machinery, oil and pines. He can hear the room echoing every single movement straight back to his ears.

And now, he can sense them – _three in the bedroom, two more just outside the door. Five heartbeats pounding slowly with a regular and steady beat – calm. Weapons – the sharp smell of metal says six or seven knives between them, as well as two guns stashed away. A piercing, bitter chemical smell – liquid, stowed in a capped plastic syringe._

Maybe a kick is exactly what he needed. His now-working senses are screaming, with every part of him locked in dread because there's something terribly wrong about this but he shoves the feeling away. Doesn't matter, deal with it later. For now – he sets his mind on the task before him. _Fight_.

Two of them come at him together this time, barely making a sound – but they can't muffle the sound of their muscles stretching, their joints popping. Matt's avoiding their swings and ducking around behind them before he even thinks about it. The first one growls audibly – rough fabric scratches against itself, shoved aside as skin brushes across a smooth metal surface. Matt spins, waiting for that two-second gap to pass – _kshhk_ – his arm moves like a snake, deflecting the knife and sending it whirling off to the side.

And then, they're all leaping at him at once. Fists rain down, but he knocks most of them away – not as many as he normally could. These men are strong – kick, punch, he rolls away but one of them throws himself back on top of him again–

Still, it doesn't take Matt that long to gain the upper hand. He's only too aware of exactly how much noise they're making – the crash of bodies being repeatedly thrown to the ground, the instinctual shouts that are his fault as much as they are _theirs_ , as well as the occasional shattering as another piece of his furniture is destroyed. At least it's the middle of the day – he thinks, but then who knows how long he was sleeping for–

 _That was really stupid_ , he thinks to himself angrily as he drives his fist heavily into someone's face. That one drops instantly – the heartbeat stutters and evens out. _Unconscious_. The all-too-familiar scent and taste of sharp copper wells up into the air, hanging heavily like a cloud – it sways and stirs as Matt leaps up, moving on. The other two men try to avoid the immediate kick that he throws at them, sweeping his foot low, but it's pointless – one goes down with a thud, while the other stumbles back and falls against the wall, wheezing. A swift strike to the head finishes the job.

 _Three down_. The second that the third man's heartbeat slows, Matt finds himself gasping for breath – it's like his lungs are suddenly made of iron, refusing to admit the air he needs. But there's no time, no room for a breather – he sucks in a few deep breaths, turning stiffly to face the remaining two men.

Their hearts are still beating steadily – calm, despite having just seen their three friends get their asses handed to them. They just stand there in the doorway to his bedroom, breathing like nothing is wrong – _bump-bum-bump bum-bump. There's no smell of cologne, no smell of deodorant either – barely a hint of sweat or even skin oil. Just that strange chemical scent. One of them slowly draws out the gun he'd been keeping holstered on his chest – it's a sleek model, complete with muffler, greased and new. The man's hands don't shake in the slightest, not even as his finger shifts to place itself on the trigger_ –

Matt heaves in one final breath, willing that to be enough. The moment stretches into relative quiet – they don't move, and he just listens and tries to figure them out. _Nothing_. It only means that his preferred method will have to be used instead.

"Who sent you?"

Matt says the words the way he usually does in a situation like this – with his voice pressed down made to sound almost gravelly so that they won't be able to tell. An instant later he remembers that there's no point, and it almost sends a wave of panic through him – but not quite. Instead, he clenches his fists tightly and growls into the silence.

"What do you want from me?"

One of them shifts – he leans back slightly, and maybe Matt's wrong but it seems like he's smiling – it's the one without the gun, the one who still smells faintly like chemicals and bitterness. The man takes a breath, slow and casual and wrong –

"You sure think you've got the run on things here, don't you?" His voice is casual too, itching at Matt's mind. _Wrong_ – "The man without fear, huh?"

Ah.

So that's it.

That itching sensation of missing something is finally relieved – but rather than fading away, it's as if the itch burrows beneath his skin instead, still screaming _wrong_. He hadn't had a chance to even come to a conclusion about who these people were targeting – Matt Murdock or Daredevil. But he wasn't wearing his red suit, so he sort of subconsciously decided on the former, except…well.

Looks like they're actually after both.

 _Shit_.

"Though, I've got to say, without the suit it's a lot harder to be intimidated."

Matt finds himself pressing his lips together, forcibly taking slow and deep breaths. The other two men still just stand there, with steady heartbeats and steady breaths and steady, careless smiles, and meanwhile –

Meanwhile – Matt stands, too. It takes him a long, precarious moment to realize that he's actually okay.

He'd always thought that when someone discovered that Matt Murdock and Daredevil were one and the same, he'd definitely… well, he didn't know. React badly, probably. He certainly couldn't imagine it happening any other way. The very thought would send a wave of queasiness sweeping through him. So, now – he was surprised. His hands are steady, his breathing is under control, his pulse is normal. It almost makes him proud that he can just stand there and not react to this.

It'll probably hit him later.

Matt squares his shoulders, shifting to spread out his weight. "What are you doing here?" The question isn't at all rushed, just measured and calm.

The one that doesn't have a gun inhales, then releases the breath in an amused sort of laugh. "You really think that you're still the one who asks the questions?" says the man. His tone is genuinely humorous, except that it's also tinted with something more cold and cruel. "That's gonna change real fast."

And then Matt scoffs, raising his eyebrows skeptically. "…Did you see what happened to your friends over here?" Matt indicates the three unconscious bodies over his shoulder with a tilt of his head. The man laughs again and slowly shakes his head, grinning strangely.

"They're not friends," he says, a smile in his hard voice. "They're dogs."

The smile fades.

Matt doesn't reply this time. It's obviously not going to get him anywhere – and anyway, the whole _ask questions first_ thing has never worked for him. His policy is _beat up, ask questions, and then beat up some more until they answer_.

So, Matt attacks.

Just like that, his perception swings as if it's dangling from the edge of a cliff, or at least it was before it let go – but this time, instead of trailing behind it, Matt is moving through. He can keep up. He charges forward, making to slam the smiling man's head into the wall while kicking off of the other one – he throws a solid punch just to knock them off balance, but for the second disconcerting time, it doesn't hit where it was supposed to. Instead, the other man's hand has flashes forward to meet it – in the tiny, eternal second that follows, Matt's fist jams to a halt a foot and a half too soon, and he has a fleeting premonition of this man's strangely iron-like muscles crushing half the bones in his own hand.

Matt has already spun out of the grip, ripping his fist free, before there's any danger of that. But, he can't deny that his heart skipped a beat there.

_They're good –_

The next few minutes is spent without time to think – Matt lets his instincts and senses take care of motion and tactics. The three of them crash around his apartment, and the end to holding back comes surprisingly sooner than Matt expected. He spares half a second to think _not again_ as his coffee table shatters angrily – the floor boards of the roof-access staircase are quick to follow, but he doesn't get a chance to feel remorse. Blood that's not entirely from his enemies is soon splattered all around his apartment, adding to the coppery cloud in the air and thickening the taste of freshly-stirred dust. _Punch – duck – roll …take the hit._

The not-monotony – because not thinking is almost never synonymous with monotony, in his experience – breaks when that sharp chemical smell returns.

Of all the things he _hadn't_ been thinking about, that strange smell was far down on the list – he'd noticed it earlier, but then he'd noticed a lot of things. He tends to immediately notice, and then immediately and/or temporarily disregard things a lot.

This smell probably shouldn't have been, though.

Just as he manages to get a good grip on the guy who had the gun (but doesn't anymore, seeing as how it's now sitting on a glass-strewn fire escape several floors down) and is about to throw him at or maybe through a wall – the smell resurfaces, sharp and pungent. _Hospital?_ Matt forgoes the wall plan for a quick punch to the face, and instead spins towards the other man, the one who is now holding the syringe that's emanating that stench.

 _Syringe – smell – get rid of it_ – _!_

And he's about to. There's no way that cocky asshole would ever be fast enough to stab him with that thing, not if Matt's paying attention – and he is. The fact that these guys nearly match him in strength and speed doesn't worry him, not in the least. He can do more, has always been able to. Anyway, he can hear in their breathing and their pulse that they're both getting tired, both definitely feeling the blows–

Matt holds in his breath, focusing on everything as he starts to move, and the guy with the syringe is too – he pulls his hand back, ready to strike (as if), and doesn't even flinch as Matt launches.

In fact, the man just stands there unmoving. And after another fraction of a second, his arm does move, but it's – not to hit Matt, it's to – _what?_ The air above Matt splits, and the syringe tumbles through it, straight overhead and behind him, where…

The other guy is now standing. The syringe lands easily in his hand –

Matt veers off track, trying to stop the collision course that he seems to have embarked on – the floor beneath his feet creaks with a lack of accommodation, and the man before him releases a satisfied puff of breath. Then he turns with a sudden whirlwind of air and aims a kick directly at Matt's chest.

It hits.

Matt's arms are up to block it, but it doesn't do all that much good – he's thrown back, twisting and attempting to turn it into a roll, an evasion, something –

It's almost successful – he uses the other guy as a springboard, shoving himself back. The other guy – one with the syringe, now. Matt is in the process of regaining his balance, about to return to the wall thing and maybe have that syringe join the discarded gun outside – he needs three seconds. Two.

But the air shifts again, and the man's arm must be made of lightning or something, because it darts forward before Matt knows that it's going to.

On the bloodied side of his right shoulder, he feels a sharp sting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! This summer is a busy one. But, this story will never be abandoned! So don't worry.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, and sorry I've been absent for so long... what can I say, life is life. I've recently been so busy and negligent that I started experiencing Daredevil withdrawal - symptoms include the uncontrollable and inexplicable urge to write detailed and extensive descriptions of multiple someone's faces getting punched to shreds - and so, here we are. I hope you enjoy.

**Chapter 9**

In the end, they wind up sitting down on a tiny park bench, each clutching a steaming cup of coffee.

Karen had sort of assumed that Foggy had meant 'alcohol' by the word 'drink', but thinking about it, she finds that she doesn't really mind. After all, she should probably be watching her drinking habits anyway.

And besides that, it's really just easier to _not_ resort to a bottle of scotch when there's someone by her side. When that someone is Foggy, it's even easier. His brightness never seems to fade, and Karen can simply lean into it and breathe in relief and (almost) forget everything.

A part of her wants to emphasize the _almost_ , but she ignores it.

She leans into the back of the wooden planks that make up the rickety old bench, and raises the styrofoam cup to her lips carefully. Next to her, Foggy does the same, making a point to blow a cool stream of air over the surface of his beverage first.

When a black car passes by with a muted whir of air and sound, her heart leaps into her throat and her fingers squeeze a little too tight around her coffee, but she stays silent and so does Foggy. She doesn't mention that caffeine is probably the last thing on earth that she needs right now. She's pretty sure that anything qualifying as something she actually _needs_ wouldn't do her much more good than this cup of coffee anyway, so there really isn't much point.

For a while, they just sit.

Foggy doesn't try to make conversation, and Karen gratefully sinks into the lack of it. No matter how ridiculous Foggy can get, no matter how much he can sometimes manage to pry and prod when the result is only mildly and laughably annoying, there's no possible way to say that he's tactless. Foggy knows when the best thing to do is just stay silent, and now is one of those times. For a long while, they just sit and enjoy each other's presence, slowly sipping down their coffees.

Eventually, Foggy starts talking about birds.

At first Karen simply listens. A little while later, when Foggy has already gone from single-handedly discussing the pros and cons of bird life, to flawed city policy, to the inner workings of preparing the perfect side of beef, Karen can't help but give the occasional laugh, asking a question or two, prompting Foggy to go on. It's almost like listening to the enthusiastic ravings of a child, except that Foggy throws in his trademark dose of humor and deliberate cheeriness that Karen knows is for her benefit.

She listens and laughs, and Foggy keeps on talking about nonsense. Karen would honestly love to just stay there, not thinking, not wondering. At least while she's listening to Foggy, she doesn't have to watch the road, doesn't care about the coloring of the vehicles that pass by. She doesn't have to think about deals or obligations or things that may or may not be known by certain people.

Foggy laughs loudly, a full and sincere sound, as he remembers some aspect or another of the story he's currently telling. Karen laughs too, smiling at him, and pretends that her smile _isn't_ at all dimmed by what she's _not_ thinking.

(She's not thinking about Matt, or what he might be doing right now, or if he suspects that she knows what she does. Not, not, not.)

Karen stops laughing before Foggy does, and her smile dissolves into the air.

* * *

_Get up._

He'd only just barely registered the sting on his shoulder a fraction of a second ago. Barely, not even enough time to fully understand _what_ , or _why_ – everything slows down into shattered milliseconds as he spins away, pulling back as the sting presses in, caught in an endless moment which seems to have locked onto him because he can't tell who's moving faster –

The moment lets him go, and Matt hits the ground in an unstable excuse for a roll. His heart is pounding, and the mild stinging sensation lingers underneath his skin. Something that normally wouldn't even register as pain. Something that places a bitter taste in his mouth and a swirl of uneasy disbelief in his gut.

Half a second later, the syringe falls to the floor a few feet away with a hollow clattering sound. No telltale slosh of liquid – it's empty. The scent of chemicals and medicine is sharp and fresh in the air.

_Get up get up get up…_

The words repeat in Matt's head over and over again, a soft murmur of urgency. Panic is burning dully somewhere beneath them, despite Matt's attempts at calmly telling himself that they probably didn't get him. They were probably too slow; he probably got away before they could inject him. Each thought bounces off against the panic, slips away and melts into the surrounding dark. He can't force them to stay, and all that's left is the monotonous chant _get up get up get UP…_

So he ignores the ringing in his ears that's probably nothing, and he gets up.

The two men are laughing quietly, amusement warming their skin and making their heartbeats thud just a little faster. In Matt's head the sound is louder and sharper than it should be, echoing around for just a second too long. That's what panic does; that's why panic is an emotion that he makes a point _not_ to feel. But Matt knows exactly what to do with it; that's what training is for. He can harness it, grasp it tightly and shape it into something useful. He grits his teeth, sucking in a deep breath. _Anger is a spark – good_.

He lets out a mangled yell and charges.

_Rage is a wildfire – out of control, therefore useless._

The two men tense, but they're not tense enough; they're not worried, still prepared to casually counter Matt's movements. Except they're not, because Matt's already waiting for them there – he's ahead of the curve now, and he doesn't dare let himself take even a second to appreciate that fact. Doesn't want to, anyway. _Time to let the devil out_.

Matt doesn't focus on his movements. Barely gives them a thought – it's all instinct, muscle memory, instant reactions. His focus, instead, is everywhere – all around, spread out flat against the floors, the walls, every individual surface. Not-focusing. His senses simply exist everywhere, touching everything. He's going all out, and he's not even acknowledging that fact because that would waste energy, and he doesn't have a lot of that to spare. Time is also getting scarce, and he can't help but acknowledge that – in the smallest of ways, but still. The priority right now is taking care of _this_.

The guy who stabbed him with that syringe ( _didn't_ ) is the first to have his face implanted in the wall. Matt gets more than a few knocks as retribution, but each injury just slides off. The man gets up quickly, and his friend is tight on his heels. Matt slams them both into the ground, and the walls shake; one of them grabs the leg of a side table against the wall and throws it with surprising force; Matt deflects it, and it shatters loudly. A faint jabbing sensation on his ribs is the only mark that it leaves, and Matt ignores it.

 _Crash_. Heads pound, hearts drum, and Matt is beginning to feel the weight of his limbs. The two men are as well, and so Matt only pushes harder, hitting them faster. There's something pressing from inside his veins, something creeping closer to home, and the urgency is only growing. He spins, jumps, slams his fists into them for all that he's worth – half of the time, he's the one taking the brunt of the beating, but any sense of self-preservation he possesses has been pushed to a back seat.

When he finally pins one of them to the floor, he drives his knuckles into the man's face without holding back – there's a sickening crunch that's just _not_ , a spray of blood and a scream of agony all saying that this man's nose has been destroyed. The other guy is growling in anger, but it only takes a second for Matt to make him stop – he twists the man's wrist in an impossible direction, satisfied when a sharp crack emanates through the room. A few dull blows glance off Matt's back, his arms; three seconds, and Matt sends him crashing to the floor. He's not out yet – just winded, and down by one useable arm.

That's when it hits.

Matt's crouching on the ground, one arm outstretched in the lingering force that it took to knock the wheezing guy to the floor. Matt doesn't think about standing, doesn't need to - or at least, never has - but this time. He shifts in a familiar pattern, muscles contracting and bones sliding, weight slipping forward – and all the while he's strangely in tune. When he does reach his normal height, the sound of his joints smoothly straightening is loud and jarring. A sudden wave of vertigo hits him like a train, nearly bowling him over.

It's strange. Matt gasps silently, swaying on his feet, as he simply lets the dizziness fade and his senses adjust. The seconds stretch out, longer and longer, and though the lightheadedness does abate slightly, everything else stays the same. His senses buckle underneath his grip, twisting and splaying without reserve.

 _Shit_. The thought seems to just barely connect, getting lost somewhere between his mind and tongue. He _is_ standing, he knows that, but suddenly _up_ has turned over on its side and _down_ is somewhere to his left. Matt staggers, limbs stiff and uncertain – sure enough, the floor is still there underneath his feet. Definitely there – but everything else is wrong.

The wall to his right – his right, his left, his _something_ – the wall is a certain distance away. He knows that. But, reaching out to try and _feel_ it – it's miles away. Suddenly the ceiling falls, drops and quivers to halt just inches above his head. Matt starts, balance slipping, and rolls to his side. Just as abruptly as before, there's no ceiling at all, and the two men are standing before him, engulfing every space. They're crowding him, creeping closer, laughing uncontrollably. The sound fills his ears, flooding into his mind.

" _Look at him now. Look at him, helpless. Ahaha…"_

The words are everywhere.

Matt moves. He does something – he can't tell what. The memory of it stretches and snaps just as soon as the motion is over. His limbs seem to have detached from his mind, out of control – or perhaps it's just his mind that's out of order, unable to relate to the rest of the physical world. Time jolts forward, and he finds himself standing upright, one hand braced against a vertical flat surface. A wall.

He listens, and the only sound that he can detect is his own haggard breathing and hammering heart. He listens harder, tries to channel all of his concentration into it – the attempt seems futile. Every effort slides away; any control that he has over himself simply ceases to exist when called upon.

One foot lifts from the ground, strives forwards into what might as well be oblivion. Something soft and solid and heavy obstructs its path.

It's a body. Not dead. Matt knows that much. One of his attackers. Another one is lying a few feet to the side, ahead of Matt. He exhales a choked breath, and suddenly the majority of his weight is held up by his knees, and his hands are flat against the floor.

 _Breath._ Matt inhales, exhales again. When did he actually manage to knock them unconscious? And for how long had he been standing there, crouching here, taking in nothing?

More importantly. What did they give him? He can feel the chemicals threading through his veins, pulsing beneath his skin. It's the most potent feeling that he's capable of experiencing, at the moment.

Even as he stays there, unmoving, his mind begins to cave once again. The laughter returns, echoing from every corner of the room – his fists clench, and it shuts off as abruptly as if someone had switched a sound system to off. The floor tilts, becoming a ramp, going vertical – he knows it's not real, but he hits the floor nevertheless.

His hand moves to his pocket before he gives it permission to. Then again, he probably doesn't have all that much authority over it at the time, anyway. There isn't anything else he can do.

He flips the device open, or … he _thinks_ he does – but when he tries to move his fingers towards the correct speed-dial button, he finds the surface to be smooth and undisturbed by buttons of any sort. _Damn_. He turns the phone over, snapping it open, flipping it again. When he tries to press the speed-dial button this time, it simply yields no response. His thumbs feel thick and sluggish. He presses more buttons, tries a combination of each in pursuit of any sort of response at all.

Nothing.

He has a sinking suspicion that using a phone is probably beyond his current capabilities. With that idea firmly in place, he knows without a doubt that the other one is even worse.

But at the time, what he _knows_ and what he _does_ seem to have no relationship whatsoever. Warning bells ring in his mind, but his limbs drag themselves along his debris-strewn floor regardless. At the very least, he can _hope_ to rely on the fact that his body knows the way to Claire's place just as well as his mind.


End file.
